"this is a diary of hate."

So begins The End of the Affair, a fine movie that i've avoided since the beginning of my own awful affair. Hasn't everyone by now learned that it never ends well?!? Obviously not.

Pain is easy to write.

In pain we're all drably individual.

But what can we write of happiness?

So i finally watched it tonight, all by my lonesome, and it was soooo much better than i expected. But there are tinges of pain throughout that are hard to ignore. It gets me thinking (again) about the whole absurd nature of love and emotion. Can i be apathetic enough to just analyze it as chemical reactions to keep our species in a reproductive mood? How are we so driven by such forces? Have you ever really stopped to think how much of our lives revolve around love : giving, getting, looking for, finding?

I don't know what it is in me right now : self-analysis? self-loathing? selfishness? For whatever reason i end up turning to those things that remind me of my own situation. Maybe it's just a way of trying to understand what i can't by looking for it in others.

Can i stop writing now? is that fair to the hoardes of readers out there looking for insights into my madness? oh yeah, that's only me. whatever seems right i guess. So maybe i'll just break off this thought and turn to another one mulling around in my noggin.


ps- one of these days i'd like to have a mood that is not available in stupid all-inclusive drop-down.

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