I am frustrated with people again. I don't know what happened. I was just sitting in class and everything seemed so awful. Awful in the sense that I have been struggling to relate to people lately, which normally isn't a difficulty for me, but I've had trouble deciphering why people act the way that they act and the things that they do seem terrible, though my description of terrible doesn't seem to match up to anyone else's version of terrible. This sounds silly and may sound offensive, but I don't mean it to be, but it seems like in Christianity, with my limited knowledge of it, goodness is emphazied and the fact that there can be people that aren't good is emphasized even greater, but I always have assumed that people are good or try to be good and altruism above anything else applies. I never really thought that could be untrue until the past year or so and since then I've tended to assume bad things about everyone preemptively. I feel so silly. It feels stupid not to trust the intentions of others and hate the things that they are doing and feel like they love things all wrong. How can people love things all wrong? That is so contradictory, but in my head it's true.

This is not to imply anything greater on my side. I always like to talk about people in terms of planets. Usually I feel like I'm on a planet and sometimes people join me on my planet and it's a fairly accessible place to get to, but right now I feel really far away and like I'm purposefully going further away. Not from everyone. There are some people I like a lot. That's the other trouble, even when I like people I don't know how to get to them anymore. The idea just terrifies me. But it's what I want, so badly.

I'm being melodramatic. I wrote some poems today though, I will post those next. They are also melodramatic. This is my tendency as a person. Last year in Italy, I wrote a poem, with my usual level of melodrama and my advisor said that he used to think poems should supress those things, but he was starting to think they should push them and sometimes I agree. Like right now. Rosario Castellanos in her essay, "If Not Poetry, Then What?" says:

When all of my books of poetry are collected in a single volume that opens to a first line that affirms the world cries old sterile, like a mushroom, there's nothing left to do but quickly proceed to explain. Well as commentators made me see in their good time, the mushroom is the antithesis of sterility since it proliferates with shameless abundance and nearly a total lack of stimulation. Actually, what I wanted to say then was that the world had a genesis as spontaneous as that of the mushroom, that it had not sprung from any divine plan, that it was not the result of the internal laws of matter, nor was it the conditio sine qua non for the development of the human drama. That the world was, in short, the perfect example of fortuitousness. If this was what I wanted to say then why didn't I say it? Simply because I don't want to do so.

I've been stuck on this goddamn section of her essay for weeks. I haven't been able to write my journals because of it and now they are due on Tuesday. But I like it most because of what it grants the writer. The writer may or may not know truths and may or may not write truths, but whatever she writes it doesn't matter because she is doing what she wants to do.

I'm not sure any of this makes sense. I want someone to talk to.