The most frustrating experience in the universe is feeling you’re not understood. (Maybe that’s just me.)

That no matter what you say, that no matter how well you say it, that nothing, no action, no phrase, no word emblazoned across the heavens, that absolutely nothing you can do will ever make someone understand you, to see your viewpoint for even the briefest of moments, to even acknowledge that you can see the universe in your own way, that you might have a fucking point.

The disturbing thing for me is to puase for a moment, to see myself in this situation and to see my utter desperation in the process of trying to be understood. More than loved, respected, feared, hated, more than sexually wanted by a bevy of beautiful women, more than freedom money or power, that need to understand and to be understood overwhelms me.

Maybe this should be my next small goal, to give up caring. To let it go because either it happens or it doesn’t and there is absolutely nothing at all, no trick you can perform, no sweaty task that will sway the gods to favor you, that can force understanding.

What a predicament for a person who plays with words! If you write you have a natural attraction to the notion of being understood. You want others to see your words and to know their meaning and intent. You want those words to dance in their minds and alter the universe in some way, you want your mind to touch another mind, you want them to fucking understand that great and stupendous thought you have.

And when it doesn’t happen, you have failed. You and your crafted words were impotent.

Maybe that’s the thing that is so difficult to accept. Impotency and powerlessness.

Yeah…that’s the next fucking goal. Fuck giving a shit about what other people think. It’s fruitless anyway. Fuck everyone and everything, goddammit!

Did you feel the frustration and rage? Did you understand the nihilistic impulse? Oh crap! I can’t stop! I’m addicted to being a whiny little bitch! Stop me before I try to be understood again!