time to water the tree of thought with the blood of health and soul

I am a Republic. Every desire and need is a lobbying group. Every interest and thought is an issue on the table. Action is legislation. And my mind is both the Senate and the President.

So when I commit to action, I have to wonder, what special interest subversively benefits from that action? Do I wear attractive outfits to make myself look good, for the sake of looking good, self esteem? Or for the sake of desperation, in a sick, pathetic attempt to attract men? In fact, the commitment of a recent legislation, the Blog Continuation Act, was of horrible controversy to my mind, and my conscience. I want to write this blog for myself. This blog was the spawn of an insatiable desire to define myself (spawned by the feeling of helplessness in identifying myself; that I was not a person, a thought which consumes me quite often in nights past), but does it continue to follow that course? I fear that in writing this blog for myself, I may also be writing it for others, to impress others, and it does not sit well with my conscience that the lobbyists backing Victorian oil companies should support energy bills for their own nefarious purposes.

This piece of writing is a necessary sacrifice of my sleep, my eyes, my SAT prep test which I must take in some seven hours, to settle my mind. It is far too confused right now, and is rife with unrest. Filibustering, argument, and indecision will lead to a dangerous gridlock of activity if I do not write this out. My mind is confused, because it registers a pain in my heart which it cannot cure with chocolate and movies. A tad bit dark, emo, I understand, but it's nothing but the truth, and sometimes the truth is hard to look at. It is understood by all that Legislation must be passed for the People, for the Nation as a whole, and not for some dangerous Interest Group that stands only for itself, harming the general welfare of the Populace and World at Large.

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Look at the obscene capitalizations! It reminds me of the writing by that Pyrate fellow from Utopias class, when Dan read it, and Charlie, I desire those days to come again, but they won't.
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Do I act for myself? Or do I do it, to please others? By please, I do not mean make happy. By please, I mean to bring them closer to me by putting on a farce, which is horribly destructive to the self, and developing of an unhealthy, hollow relation. I want to act for myself. For the sheer sake of nothing but my own comfort and amusement. I don't want to say, "I'm doing it to get him, to get to her, so they'll notice me", so what happens when what I do could be arguably considered for both myself and some other purpose of less than noble intentions? How can I reaffirm that I remain unaffected by peer pressure, by whimsical desires, by that awful obsessive infatuation which so often deceives the hearts of all men and women?

Every day, I feel more like an actor. More fake, more shallow, empty, inhuman. I no longer have defining traits of my own, apart from the shallow farce I put on. Nothing about me is interesting, save for my obsession with men and sex and myself. It is unbefitting. It's sickening. I hate it. And I'm addicted. Every day, I say to myself, I have to stop doing it, and then I go and do it. Because it garners response. People notice when I shout PENIS, crude is lewd is funny. Nobody finds my art entertaining, all they can say is "wow, that's awesome" and discussion of it ends there.

Which is another reason, no doubt, for my shallowness--the incapability to hold a conversation. I simply cannot do it. I am so isolated from other people, that I can't talk about anything other than my act--sex, men, myself. It is sad. Utterly pathetic. I know, if I were reading these words by someone else, I'd be saying to myself "tut tut how emo, that selfish fool doesn't know what he's talking about" but I DO know what I'm talking about. I know myself better than anyone else dammit, so don't say I'm not pathetic when I say I am. The fuck do you know.

I'm sorry. I apologize. I don't mean it. But I won't delete it. This must be entirely thought to keyboard, fluid, no backspaces but to tidy up grammar, phrasing, and spelling. Thoughts remain intact in the transfer.

So. What the hell have I come to. My mind poses problems which it has no answer to. Sadly, though I may be a Republic, I have only one mind which to draw thoughts from, and there are no upstanding citizens that may stand up and propose solutions to my issues. No senator can write a proposition, outlining step by step the proper measures that must be taken to get the Republic out of the depression.

My thinking stops. It has reached a dead end, and dead is cold, dark, and foreboding. I have hit the iceberg in the dead of night, in the middle of nowhere, and I cannot find enough lifeboats to save myself. So, I can only call out mayday as a last resort, and fire up a signal flare of distress. Whatever ship is passing by out there, I need your help. Not just a telegram, saying "you're okay", "here's what to do". We need a ship to break off from its course, sail over to our, and save these passengers because they can't save themselves.

SOS

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Talk about a cold ending. Such was the Titanic.
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