I write like little girls play hopscotch

It's so hard to separate a person and their works. So many people, so many good people, so many people worth studying are complete assholes. 

Right now I'm reading Heidegger, and the man is a Nazi. He, quite literally, is a card-carrying member of the National Socialist party. And I'm not reading his politics, I'm reading his philosophy, his metaphysics. 

Okay, fuck it, I was trying to write that, because that's been in my head for a while, and it was building up to this whole thing where I reveal I cannot separate a person and their work, but that's pretty much a given, that's not worth saying. I don't really know what is worth saying. I'm sitting in my room and there is a typewriter in front of me and I have no idea why I'm writing on a laptop and not on this machine sitting in front of me. I respect the machine, so intricate and hardy and delicate, so much more than this toy on my lap. And I just have no idea why I am on this laptop. It feels like the force of my fingers can break the keys. I don't want to dance daintily across the keyboard, you can't write poetry like that, you can't write beauty like that. I want to pound on the typewriter keys like a percussion instrument until my fingers bleed, I want to hit the typewriter with my fighting words, I want to pour anger and resentment and passion into my words and man the medium is the message, macbooks just have no passion to them, they're too dainty. 

I have known for so long, for so long, that you can't write poetry on a computer. I have known this but I still write on a computer. And I don't goddamn know why. 

Okay this is going too far into anger and I don't want to write angry things. It just feels kind of forced now. 

Today it's raining in Montreal. Or it's not even rain, it's a light drizzle. I decided to walk home from class, even though it's, like, 45 minutes and I already paid $14 for a three day pass. I figure I paid that $14 for the freedom to use the metro whenever I want, so I don't really have any obligation to use it. Just because I can do something, doesn't mean I want to at all. That's a stupid way to think, in my humble opinion. Freedom doesn't mean obligation. But yeah, it was raining, and it was so soft and sweet and sad and I was listening to sad songs and I loved it. I felt good, the world was so white and grey and green and it all looked united in these colours. The world had a single intent, and I guess it still does, since it's still wet and miserable outside. 

The mountain was covered in fog, and it was wonderful. It reminded me of the summer when I was trying to hitchhike down a mountain road and there was clouds all around and it was one of the most beautiful mornings. And the mountain looked like that, except it was Westmount, and it's covered in houses and mansions and castles and you couldn't see the top but I knew it was shrouded in fog. And it's great, because the people up there, the people who paid so much and probably did horrible things to get that money to live up there only saw white, they only saw the inside of the cloud, while I could have the mystery of not knowing what was up there. 

And I guess the inside of a cloud is as close to oblivion you can get, and I don't really know what lies these people told themselves so they can be comfortable staring into that. Or maybe they just shut the blinds and turn up the TV. Or maybe I'm completely misrepresenting them, maybe they're good people, who just happen to have money, and just happen to live up there, and the sight of the inside of a cloud is welcome and beautiful to them as it would be to me. Or so I think. I don't know, maybe I'm just lying to make myself feel comfortable staring at that. Maybe I'm just as bad as these people living on top of the mountain, maybe I'm just as bourgeois. After all, I have a place to sleep at night. 

And I don't know if that's a good judge of wealth but if it isn't I don't know what is. I have a place to sleep at night, and I have a few meals a day. And because of this I'm better off than so many other people. 

Okay, this is too socially relevant, moving somewhere else. 

Goddamnit, I just want to write poetry, man. I just want to write beauty, I just want to write with rhythm, with flow, with no intent but to illuminate a darkened place, you know? But for some reason I can't make myself do this. I blame the machine, but that's just blaming, that's just an excuse. I don't know, I feel like if I was a real poet, a true poet, a pure poet, I could sit down anywhere with the capability of making sound, of communicating in any way, and I could write something beautiful. And I guess if that's how I define poetry, then everything is poetry, any communication is poetry. Or any beautiful communication is poetry, and isn't beautiful communication just art? I don't know if I want to be a poet or an artist as they conjure up completely different images to me. For me, for some reason, the epitomal poet is Oscar Wilde (though he didn't really write poetry, or I don't really know his poetry that well), and the epitomal artist is Picasso. And I guess these are just, like, popular images of these titles, and I don't really want to be either one. I mean, I have nothing against either of those dudes, they seem fly as fuck in so many ways, but that's not me, and I don't want it to be. 

I don't like being compared to people. I mean, I know it happens, and sometimes it's pretty flattering, but I don't want to be anyone else. I'm me, I accept this, I embrace it. 

I'm me, I just need to figure out who that is.