I have spasms of reminiscent longing; usually when I’m not feeling up to speed- wishing that whatever is happening currently will pass over me like one does in the middle of a storm while listening to Beethoven at 45 speed with their lover by their side, holding their trembling hand, calming them at irregular intervals while the storm raging outside drowns out the Beethoven spinning on the ground near where you lay with your trembling half scared of what might happen, what might not happen becomes a comfort in that time, becoming coaxed into a sleep from reality through your calming words and soft skin. These spasms often induce a lot of thinking upon my behalf. I think about the past primarily. I think about what I was like a couple of years ago- where I was at emotionally, physically, mentally. I think about the good times I’ve had, along with the bad times experienced. The storm is raging outside of my window. I read most of my old entries on sitdiary on my two older accounts previous this one, which was during my years as a freshman and then a sophomore. I’ve realized that I have grown a lot over these years (physically, mentally- take your pick) and my writing has increased exponentially. The subject matter of the posts were somewhat varied- the most common of them being about my emotions in this hormonal head of mine, the common out of these dealt with girls (Rachel primarily) and that sort of subject matter. When not talking about my usual dismay about the aforementioned, it seemed as if my posts lacked any real, intelligent and honest thought. They usually explained my day (which isn’t the bad part upon which I described), and nothing more. I wonder if I ever considered the superficiality of my writing and my thoughts then, or so as it seems to me. I’ve always thought deeply (ever since a little kid), but about different subjects at different points in my life. I then applied this thought to a broader sense- superficiality is reigning supreme in our culture. Everywhere, the human heart is becoming less of an icon and more of a fictional piece written by some pretentious author whom knows nothing of feeling other than by the weight of his leather wallet. The human ethologic is teased with images and actions that are morally questionable. The ceremony is taken out of love and with it comes the honesty. Where is the sincerity in anything anymore? Does anyone ever feel compassion and honest feelings, or are they mere things of the past to be looked upon like scrapbooks grandchildren look at with their aging and weary grandparents? Why is everything so artificial? It feels like everything is fake and false- nobody is really feeling what they think they feel for they believe in trite and cheap things that offer no satiation to the soul- only to their materialistic wants. In the end, materialism triumphs over spirituality because materialism holds more of gravity upon the current minds of today- minds in which have been brought up to think that efficiency is the best way, the human heart is a myth, to keep their ear to the ground and listen to the trees dying slowly while opening their wallet and buying destruction. It’s hard to love in an age of which knows nothing of it. Granted, there are people who still feel, are honest and sincere, but they are a minority in which are overshadowed by the majority of mindless drones programmed to their televisions, their hearts beating in sync with the false idol of materialism. My problem is that I feel and think too much.