I don't really want to write something in particular

but I do want to write. What that usually means is that either I have too much half-formed crap swirling in my head that I need to remove and rearrange until I'm happy with it, or that I want to write about something but don't want to admit to myself what it is. I don't know which of these it is, but hopefully it'll become somewhat apparent to me as this goes on.

It feels a little Caulfield-esque, to be honest, and it's how I've been feeling for a while. That pent up, confused feeling towards something, and you don't really know what, but you know you're feeling something, that there's some issue or revelation that you know you could address so poignantly, if only you could comprehend it. Alarm bells normally ring once teenage losers start empathising with Holden Caulfield; it's usually one of those phases, like those brief boons of political idealism that inflates kids with up with subsistent revolutionism which, once tempered by adolescent rebellion, swiftly departs as hot air, leaving the vessel as flat as this contrived metaphor.

That's not to say such idealism is wrong and should be looked down upon- it has its place as a learning mechanism, one which can not be fully utilised without genuineness (are you a word?).

I called a friend a bee the other day, and she was pissed because I didn't say butterfly. Which is bullshit because bees are so much better. I'm not a butterfly fan- there's just something so insipid about their supposed beauty. There's nothing to it. But bees, bees are fantastic. Bees create. Hives are wonderful things- at once alien and natural, complex yet elegant. The geometry is not only divine, but functional, integral. Deviations in cell depth, size, shape are pre-determined contingency plans for the next generation of hatchlings which are recognised silently by every member of the hive. Butterflies consume their whole (short) life, Bees create. Right down to pollination. Spreading flowers here, there and everywhere. Now they've got Apollonian and Dionysian beauty going for them. *Bam*.

I've been thinking a lot about those two concepts as well, partly due to a nice little primer on Nietzsche I've been chipping away at. Order and Chaos. A lot of people make a big deal about putting themselves on one side of the divide, often without knowing it, but the only thing that separates the two is time. If rudimentary mathematics has taught me anything, all chaos leads to order eventually. Which is nice. Scribble for as long as you want, and eventually, shape will form. Even if it only makes sense to you. I guess that's what I do when I write, anyhow. Reminds me of spirographs.

I'm getting really worn out by people recently. Not that my friends and acquaintances are tiring, just that everyone is tiring.

Or rather, everyone tires me.

I tire of everyone.

The problem is me, alright?

More and more often I find myself escaping home early, or retreating to some room to study or work. That's the problem with seeing people so often for so long, you start to not miss them, which leads to the tiring, the unappreciating, it leads to me thinking things that I'm ashamed to think sometimes. For a vast majority of people I know, I'm fully aware that after I move I'm going to feel so relieved, and that I will make no attempt to meet up with them. I won't avoid such occurrences, naturally, but there's a good chance that this will be the last I'll see of any of them.

And I don't think that's a good thing to think. I really do feel guilty seeing them, and knowing what I think. But it doesn't make it any less true.