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Good God, I hate everyone.

I've never kept a proper journal before. I've never been one for keeping up with anything that was effort intensive. I have more important things to do, but this seems to be a nice way of avoiding them at the moment.



The current overriding theme in my life right now is order. I've never been one to speak outside terms of inseperable dichotomies, but recently I've come to know both sides of the coin rather intimately. Where I once saw order, chaos has superceded it. Naturally I was wise enough to expect this eventuality, but I doubt it was within my means to completely prepare for it. All things lost value but one. One thing lost all meaning excluding its intensity. True disorder is a terrible and powerful experience that I couldn't have anticipated. A terrible crashing down of the waves of rhythm from which I sought refuge in sand castles. Nonetheless, I came out more whole than I started. The less sense things began to make, the more palpable the whole began to appear. I fear I may have descended into the path of the mystic. The path of the inane and ineffable. More is the pity, for who I cannot be sure. When I took it upon myself to recreate order, I found that it was not exactly as I left it. Chaos had left me with a cruel predilection for destruction. Shall I slither out of this old skin and taste my new tail?