and where else was there for him to go? and how do we judge a missed connection, how do we deem it?

for my thoughts are your thoughts, says the i, but the i writes for himself.

i mean here we go round and round right? and where are we going? but this question is so modern, the old ones were better. come on, stop being such a nihilist. everything is true, and we can PROVE it. prove it prove it prove it to me. i neeed to know man.

so youve developed this fascinating appeal ever since youve left my world, and i wonder if the theory here translates into practice, if you are as mysterious as the virtual media here on the screen tells me that you are. its telling me that you are smart, and that you write, and well see that appeals to my senses, you know, because youre not dumb. god see ive been hopelessly alone for ages now and maybe you could be the one that could understand me, because my needs are just that primal. i am not super, or, as Dostoyevsky puts it, "extraordinary." I had better not deceive myself into thinking that i am one of those intellectually superior individuals who thus has a right to transgress the laws of man for the sake of accomplishing my superior agenda. for, you will say (as you should), how do we know that you are from God? where is your authority? i mean, its such a valid question.

but please, just be with me. let me hear your voice. im very alone.

i am the commander of the world inside my head, and nobody knows it but me. it is where i have gone to escape that miserable swell of loneliness that has made this summer one of the most depressing on record. for i like to think that its not my fault. i tried not to be lonely, i tried to like myself, etc. but it all bottomed out, and i think, i think i venture to say that perhaps the circumstances that led to its bottoming out were outside of my control, but what the hell does that mean? should i take any comfort in that, that the reason i am alone now is outside of my control? if i were a judge i would condemn myself. id give myself the maximum sentence (eternity in hell of course) for not getting it right.

"you didnt get it right" i would say, "you screwed up, you failed to realize such and such. you did not have this particular epiphany at this particular time, so you fail. and o yea, the reason youre alone is your own damn fault. you could've reached out to those people, but you turned them away instead. you retreated into your own little world, and the ones you did pursue were the ones you knew would not or could not love you, and you pursued them because you have this sick fascination for things you cannot have, and when they all denied you you just retreated further and further inward, until ambition was your only friend. you read books, you learned languages, you played instruments, you created art, all in an attempt to fill the vacant space of your own boredom movement that only further perpetuates your depression. you are responsible for all of the worlds evils, and you are responsible for not solving them, and you are responsible for all of the worlds questions, and you are responsible for not answering them. yet you are far too cowardly to die on a cross. in the absence of your God, you derived your self worth from your degree of self-perceived intelligence. and then, to top it off, you run through these hypothetical situations in your head where you are your own judge on Judgement Day, and, like Faust, you thrive on the enjoyment of your own viciously public self-deprecation. you hate yourself, so you play neurotic in an attempt to muddle your own identity. then you talk back to yourself so that you do not know who to trust. then you talk back to the talk backer. you say you want to travel, you need to be on the road, but why cant you realize that when you are on the road you are always alone, and all you are trying to do is run from your own loneliness. but you cannot run from it, because at any moment you may become suddenly aware that there is no one in the passenger seat.

and so, for all this, you are condemned. but do you want to know the reason, aaron, why you are condemned most of all? you are condemned most of all because in all of your loneliness, you regretted to notice the poor widow at your doorstep. you could not see the forest for the trees.

but i need, i say, i need. i am convinced that i simply cannot see the forest in isolation. it takes another.

my problem is that i sleep too well. And the reason why i think the metaphor of sleep serves us well in this instance is because sleep denotes something natural, external of the individual volition. Can (will) we be held accountable for the degree to which we are capable of sleeping well? i hear you say, "i cannot control how many chromosomes i was born with," yes but the beatings will continue until somebody listens. you will suffer because you cannot sleep well, and you will suffer because you sleep too well.

there hasnt been any deaths in the family, and im not crying. but what i am crying for is greener grass. Only then can i cry for some nice brown grass- dirty, parched grass full of the kind of dirt you can really sink your teeth into.

she left me, but i still slept ok at night. sometimes i get a lyric, but i just cant get out of bed. there's entropy for you.

*less and less sure that my previous desires for neuroticism arent coming true, because what i find is that im good (perhaps too good) at acting like a normal person. but do i want to be a normal person, or do i want to be dangerous? dangerous is overrated. normalcy is rated about right. im positively 100 percent sure its rated about right. its universal- it transcends the age. everyone everywhere knows it, dont ask me how, they just do. they can sense it from the stars. its amazing. they all come to the same conclusion, so that if i meet someone living on an untouched island in the south pacific, they would know, i mean they would just know. and they could be living 500 years ago too, and they would know, for sure, with absolute certainty, they could count on it.

am i crying yet? no. check. no. Is our journey through the unknown complete yet? no. can i trace the roots of this back to an incident, one strange occurrence of being denied this year? yes. i mean, i guess im hurting in all those kind of ways, hurting in the ways im not hurting. but you did hurt me, so i guess im doing alright.

im gonna ask you, im gonna ask you about justice. im gonna say, "what do you think about justice?" and perhaps you will cower in fear in that way that is so familiar to all of us, that way which has now crossed the line of that which is excusable. and we're gonna gang up on you, and im gonna smear it in your face a little, especially when we'll all be dressed up so nice. and you will sweat in that heat because something, something is on the line.

here, you may be confused as to whether i am talking about God, or some girl, but let me tell you, they are really the same. let me tell you about how i decided a few weeks ago that God is the husband, and i am the bitching wife who spends all his money, and freaks out and yea plays that part. but i always come back to him, theres an understanding there, and even in our hate there is love. so the absent girl is just like the absent god, so its somewhat of a long distance relationship, and there is a lot of silence. but i scream a lot, and slam doors, and run out of the house, and get really jealous, but he gets jealous too. and lonely, o, let me tell you how lonely i get.

let me tell you how lonely she left me. for i gave and gave and gave for her, but it was not her fancy. and then, and then, God defriended me on facebook. o my god, what am i going to do? he doesnt even want to be acquaintances anymore! and yet, you say, we return again to the issue of justice - there were times when some lover fell for you and she was not your fancy. yes, yes, i will be punished, but dont steal the justification for my anger, or, to put it another way, dont steal the justification of my irrationality. i can only manage to be irrational so often, so dont screw it up.

but lets get back to it- how lonely she left me. she moved away, and i dont know what shes doing. but ive been thinking lately, that we probably werent a good fit. i realized it when i realized that i had to fake it to her to make it. then i found out that, to varying degrees, she was conning me the whole time. what do you do with that? ill tell you what you do with it, you stay up till three in the morning writing stories about it, thats what you do with it.

you always said you wanted me to write you a story. but forgive me, this one's probably more for myself.

but who can really distinguish anyway?

ok so, i mean, we can't end it on that note. there is redemption, after all, but our underground man hasn't been delivered yet.

so he wakes up in a field, and he says "i have faith, the faith that conquers all understanding." he's reached the end of his string, and his tumultuous affair with discord comes to an end. Or rather, the cancer recedes, allowing him to exist, to live his life, though, ironically, both it and him live to fight another day, each demanding their respective partials from the whole of his existence.

i am smart, but you cannot trust me, my words, i am too self-conscious. but im not that aware of how intelligent i am, i promise. its all a farce, i insist- the neurotic thing, i put it on, just a sham, nothing more than an average intelligence exists behind these eyes. there's nothing here for you, really, im not that smart. the only reason i can write this way is because i drank 2 cups of coffee at 9 oclock this morning. no, really, im not that smart. please dont tell me that, i dont need to know that. but i do believe it about myself, but i did not need you to tell me. ive always known. i know im attractive too, but im a little overweight, but please dont tell me that, its all a sham, and i really dont know, im hideously ugly and i play neurotic just to get a reaction because i want to be perceived as a good writer because i dont want to be alone. i know that i wont be alone, though, because i am a attractive person and you will grant me social graces that you will not grant my unattractive counterpart. i will not be lonely because i do not play neurotic around you. i act normal on purpose. i know how to be social. but you would like me anyway, or atleast have a natural predisposition towards liking me, because i am a nice boy who you feel safe around. i pretend we are best friends, and there is nothing you do not know about me. I know that you're a tight-ass so i play the fool around you so that i can laugh to myself and make myself feel that i possess a certain type of unmatched wit so that you will like me, or perhaps so that i will like myself, because, after all, i need to laugh too. i pretend to agree with your horrendously shallow observations about the world in order to fake a level of continuity that was never there. i was searching for someone who understood so i said yes youre right, but deep down i still thought that i was smarter than you. i thought that i was right. but i played the stupid around you so we could be stupid together, and i wanted you to think i was smart so that you would like me so that i could demonstrate my intellectual superiority over you through my amazing rhetoric. and i would write too- these brilliant essays on my opinions of the world- how they were unique and differentiated from my peers, and then i would win awards for these essays, and then i would write essays about how accomplished my essays were, but i would try to downplay it, but i wouldnt downplay it that much, because to really fake humility you have to own it just a little. and then i would write an essay about faking my own humility, and throw everything into question by making you think that i had deceived you into thinking that i was not only a moderately humble human being, but that i actually believed in virtue of humility itself, and thought it somehow attainable. but then you may think me a total nihilist and deconstructionist- that is a part i can play, yes, i can do it, and i will convince you, but you will be shocked when you find out just how wide, just how deep does human deception exist in the level of potential, and it exists in every human being. but see i am getting too smart again, i am expositing, which is what smart people too (and really smart people say that smart people exposit things) and i cannot get too smart or exposit too much, for all my friends would leave me because they cannot understand me, or perhaps they think my ego is overinflated, and i am trying to prove to them that i am smart by writing these silly little essays about god knows what and publishing them in these ridiculously terrible college newspapers. ive run out of things to say about myself, but you must forgive me, there is no one else that i know so well. i tried one time to get to know someone, but she wouldnt let me in. i was smart for a while, but i then i tried dumb, i tried emotional, i think i was, but i wanted her to think me smart so that she would let me get to know her so that she would be with me so that i did not have to be lonely, but it did not work, so i had to come up with some new roles. do you like them?

To drown you must become an addict.

Perhaps God says, "surround yourself in vice for shit's sake. it's for the sake of hearing." I mean, contrariness perhaps, contrariness aside for its vain rebelliousness, it is the present dispensation, is it not? Drown in sound. Become a bug, as Kafka says, because looming deep inside your soul is the mind of the same 15-year old attention-whoring slut who you used to look at with such vexed disdain because you could not understand how she got into such a fucked up position. She is a public beast, we are private. "I've got out at last," she says as she tramples over you to get to the door.

But when you take a knife to your own arm, you might feel it. I mean, you would have to "feel" it one way of the other- it's a multi-sensory experience. At least if you can't feel it, you can see it. Perhaps you can even smell it. But that's not really what she's interested in, is it? "For socialism is not merely the labour question," Dostoyevsky writes, "it is before all things the atheistic question."

We've got to get him to respond- come down out of the clouds, illicit a response, as it were. It's already too loud, but we must make it louder- unavoidable. The whole creation groans, you see, she's screaming "fuck," how could you not know that this is what she is saying? Yet her skin only gets thicker, but to thin it out it must get thicker.

So the white noise of man's disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree, our own creation, swells perpetually, and indeed it must, and indeed it should, as we will continue to cut ourselves deeper and deeper until we hear a voice from the heavens.

"Godot will not come today, will he?"

"No sir, not today, but perhaps tomorrow."

"Nothing to be done, then, nothing to be done."