Self-awareness sometimes fades for me, and frequently heightens. At both of these times I feel like I am becoming aware of some truth, and then I promptly realize that the very idea is absurd. I'm considering a Junior essay on the concept of wanting out of your skin. A great piece of obvious and already known knowledge was given to me two days ago. For these essays, people should first think of what they want to write about, and then pick the work. The tutors here won't tell us this, because they think it heretical. "What? You can't find an honest topic? Why don't you write on Descartes? You seem to like the study of knowldege. Or how about Hume? He's post-modern, right?" Now, perhaps no one reading this will care, and quite understandably. Sometimes considering this college is boring to me even while going here. But generally it remains a powerful paradox which bears sorting through.

Why are so many students drunk all the time, and stupid even sober? And yet some of the most impressive people I've met, I've met here. What could I make of the persistent vulgurization of all culture? Particularly when I am aware of its influence over me. Is it possible to affect someone who lives in the unenlightened manner of the great mass of humanity, who is bigoted, unaware, resistent to change, and content with a stupid life? But then, maybe I'm not qualified to judge such people, and maybe I'm wrong about the quality of their lives; maybe mine is not better.

In the development of philosophy (and why should I care?) the trend in the last two hundred years has been away from the dogmatic confines of logic and toward something much more complicated and less seemingly applicable. It is as if philosophy has been examining its own subconscious mind, and has found great depths of mystery about what had been seemingly the simplest of concepts. And yet, if it remains mystery, why should I trust it, and what could I hope to gain from it? What could my role in such a thing possibly be?

Writers seem to stuggle to remain relevant. What, then, is relevant? Why does this generation seem to me to be incapable of great art, to the extent that we cannot even judge ourselves?

Oh, and why did I write this blog?