Excerpt from Nov. 16

I am the most bloated of beasts, glutted on the mediocrity I continuously jam into myself. A never ending parade down my intellectual gullet of that which merely suffices. Exterior stimulus seemingly represents the sole genesis and only sustenance of true worthy endeavors, and the removal or fulfillment of that outside impulse is the strangulation of authentic stabs at truth. Indeed, this is a sad, nay, pathetic state of affairs, given my situation. If only I would grasp tightly such a razor as would slash out complacency, a fiery poker as would purge, and in that cleansing, galvanize. I have been gifted by the Knower of Knowledge; I am apparently content to play with the trifling ribbon which wrapped about the gift. The ribbon grows thin, and yet I cling in defiance of the richer thoughts attainable if I will but cast down the silly shiny ideas. There are real ideals to be tested and explored, whose quality demands testing--rigorous battering in the quest for veracity. That which is easily attained is by nature a flimsy palliative the senses. That which is of rich and broad texture is resistant to half-hearted assaults, but fully rewards the persistant and fierce besieger.