i just finished Dead Poets Society.

that was really good. kinda morbid ending. leaves you feeling kinda ick. i felt rather punk to begin with. of course i've been keeping you all painfully aware of that. so i'll spare you any additional exhortations.

And now for something completely different ...

so far i have 3.16 GB of music on my hard drive. i'm less than halfway through. i guess that's what i get for copying at 160 Kbps.

... and the hours keep on rolling by. the days drag on forever, turning to a boundless bundle of placid recollection, only to remember that you would have done something different if you could go back. the morrow's morn bodes just as bleak as those of the past, yet hope lurks just beyond the field of perception. somewhere on that elusive horizon a glimmer is creeping that we must keep striving for. maybe we'll never reach it, but i must try and get closer, closer, close as i can with all of the resources at my disposal.

the joy of life is in the journey - for life is for the living, and death for the dead. but life will multiply, and death will continue to thwart us in its inevitability. it may be a cycle; to be repeated for eternity. it might actually take the form of a limitless cosine, dictating the fluctuations of a millennia of subsequent epochs. or it may be in fact a simple line, whose source cannot be undone, and whose direction with which we are charged. lateral motions evade gratification, as well as consequence. vertical motions hold all of the weight of the decision in the guidance of the projectile life, which spawns off other lives which are out of its jurisdiction, yet within its realm of influence. and eventually that line will fizzle and dissolve into an ethereal mist whose remnants are soon forgotten. the true legacy of that life-line lives on in the adjacent lives which the originator has touched and altered, positively OR negatively.

i want my alterations to be positive. for my sake, as well as the sake of those around me. for all of the ones i love. and i do love them, more than i would ever publicly disclose (at least, beyond this disclosure, whose medium doesn't do the message its full justice).
even more difficult is positively impacting the lines of those whom i may not love, or whose lines run contrary to my own. however, those must be nurtured the most carefully of all, and are simultaneously the most difficult to nurture.

for what it's worth: my efforts (although plebian, ineffective, and reeking of condescention) are sincere, and benevolent. the remonstrance which i feel toward these fruitless efforts is too great to define, or if they are fruitful, the fruit which they bear is too miniscule and sour to appreciate and properly ascertain. therefore, why continue the efforts?

because they are the utmost maximum of my capacity, and the only way to further augment that capacity is to push it, to rehearse the most fruitless of efforts, until their supply becomes abundant, or at least more desirable and pleasing to the eye.

i leave you with two idle ponderings:

- how do i go about making my life extraordinary?
- what provides that quality, that supercession of the mediocre?

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