Morningstar
Jul. 29th, 2002 12:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rinueI took an online quiz just now: "what angel are you?" because I really couldn't imagine. Never identified with angels particularly, despite the fact that I always played them in Passion plays. (It was the blond ringlets, I'm sure.) Answered it honestly -- was surprised at how well the answer choices fit me. Curiosity rose. The answer is inevitable in retrospect.
Lucifer.
The artist. The contrarian who thought to question things. Of course he was God's favorite; he was certainly my favorite in the myth, like Prometheus. He was the one who could think, who made a point of thinking. And of being entertaining. God made a mistake in throwing him out; that's why Heaven's no fun and God is depressed all the time. It's the best explanation for human history.
It's been almost a month since I last slept properly. It's having a negative impact on my writing, in that it hurts my eyes to stare at a white computer screen for too long. I'm damn tired of it.
Ba dun dun.
Lame entries? Obviously. If they weren't, you'd know I was lying.
You With A Notepad: So why the hell aren't you sleeping?
Me Lying On A Couch: Well, it sure can't be stress, because as an itinerant philosopher (i.e. slacker) I don't have any of that. And it can't be depression, because when I'm depressed I sleep a lot. Can't be the move, because I'm nomadic and have been for five years. No nightmares either.
You: Let's go back to the stress thing.
Me: Oh, let's not.
You: It's just that you're lying, which you don't usually do in your journal.
Me: How would you know?
You: You're typing. Besides, you think it's bad form to lie outright -- it means you were careless and missed a dodge.
Me: I told you I don't miss people.
You If You Know A Lot About My Life Offline: That's a fairly clever pun and an excellent demonstration of exactly what we're talking about.
You If You Know Who I Am: That's a blatant nonsequitor and an excellent demonstration of exactly what we're talking about.
Me: Ergo, this entire conversation is most likely a means of avoidance, as is not writing, and both probably reflect the source of the stress that prevents me from sleeping properly.
You: And you say you hate secrets.
Me: I should think that was reflected in my actions.
You: The stress.
Me: The leaving dozens of clues in plain sight, which of course renders them invisible unless you already know the answer -- which everyone does; most of them just don't know the question.
You: You're too cryptic.
Me: Of course. Otherwise, it would be cheating. If I thought anyone would figure it out, I wouldn't be properly keeping the secret. But I'm enough of an intellectual massochist to crack the window.
You: How is that massochistic? If the right person figured it out, it wouldn't be secret anymore, and you hate secrets. It also wouldn't be your responsibility, your move, or your fault that it was told. Sounds more like mild sadism to me.
Me: No, because nobody will be stupid enough to figure it out - the fact that I'm keeping it secret at all is enough of a warning.
You: I thought you said everyone already knew.
Me: They do. Which is why they couldn't possibly figure it out; it's not new knowledge.
You: Then what makes it dangerous?
Me: Heavy lightness. Serious vanity.
Chad's Self Visiting My Head: Daring.
Me: Are you kidding? Anybody who both picks up on that and manages to solve the puzzle deserves a cash reward.
You: Wait - you're offering incentives to people to do what you're saying they shouldn't do?
Me: Either I'm nowhere near as noble as you'd like to think I am, or it's the same kind of scare-tactic posturing as "I dare you to come over here."
You: So effectively this entry's just masturbation?
Me: I warned you at the beginning. Told you I was tired. Told you it was a bad entry. Told you I was the Prince of Lies. The clues are always there if you are ready to see them.
You: Y'know, I really hate you sometimes.
Me: Me too.
::Romie is cast into a bottomless pit::
Lucifer.
The artist. The contrarian who thought to question things. Of course he was God's favorite; he was certainly my favorite in the myth, like Prometheus. He was the one who could think, who made a point of thinking. And of being entertaining. God made a mistake in throwing him out; that's why Heaven's no fun and God is depressed all the time. It's the best explanation for human history.
It's been almost a month since I last slept properly. It's having a negative impact on my writing, in that it hurts my eyes to stare at a white computer screen for too long. I'm damn tired of it.
Ba dun dun.
Lame entries? Obviously. If they weren't, you'd know I was lying.
You With A Notepad: So why the hell aren't you sleeping?
Me Lying On A Couch: Well, it sure can't be stress, because as an itinerant philosopher (i.e. slacker) I don't have any of that. And it can't be depression, because when I'm depressed I sleep a lot. Can't be the move, because I'm nomadic and have been for five years. No nightmares either.
You: Let's go back to the stress thing.
Me: Oh, let's not.
You: It's just that you're lying, which you don't usually do in your journal.
Me: How would you know?
You: You're typing. Besides, you think it's bad form to lie outright -- it means you were careless and missed a dodge.
Me: I told you I don't miss people.
You If You Know A Lot About My Life Offline: That's a fairly clever pun and an excellent demonstration of exactly what we're talking about.
You If You Know Who I Am: That's a blatant nonsequitor and an excellent demonstration of exactly what we're talking about.
Me: Ergo, this entire conversation is most likely a means of avoidance, as is not writing, and both probably reflect the source of the stress that prevents me from sleeping properly.
You: And you say you hate secrets.
Me: I should think that was reflected in my actions.
You: The stress.
Me: The leaving dozens of clues in plain sight, which of course renders them invisible unless you already know the answer -- which everyone does; most of them just don't know the question.
You: You're too cryptic.
Me: Of course. Otherwise, it would be cheating. If I thought anyone would figure it out, I wouldn't be properly keeping the secret. But I'm enough of an intellectual massochist to crack the window.
You: How is that massochistic? If the right person figured it out, it wouldn't be secret anymore, and you hate secrets. It also wouldn't be your responsibility, your move, or your fault that it was told. Sounds more like mild sadism to me.
Me: No, because nobody will be stupid enough to figure it out - the fact that I'm keeping it secret at all is enough of a warning.
You: I thought you said everyone already knew.
Me: They do. Which is why they couldn't possibly figure it out; it's not new knowledge.
You: Then what makes it dangerous?
Me: Heavy lightness. Serious vanity.
Chad's Self Visiting My Head: Daring.
Me: Are you kidding? Anybody who both picks up on that and manages to solve the puzzle deserves a cash reward.
You: Wait - you're offering incentives to people to do what you're saying they shouldn't do?
Me: Either I'm nowhere near as noble as you'd like to think I am, or it's the same kind of scare-tactic posturing as "I dare you to come over here."
You: So effectively this entry's just masturbation?
Me: I warned you at the beginning. Told you I was tired. Told you it was a bad entry. Told you I was the Prince of Lies. The clues are always there if you are ready to see them.
You: Y'know, I really hate you sometimes.
Me: Me too.
::Romie is cast into a bottomless pit::
