gosh. I've got to finish Rasselas. on one hand I can identify with the imagination-is-a-flight-of-fatal-fantasy theory and believe that isolation ain't too good for the 'ol soul 'if ya know wat i mean'; on the other hand it means no more day-dreams, no more visionary ideals, not even aspirations? where's the hope then? therefore Rasselas (thanks to JJ who has now given me the ending) has no satisfactory conclusion: (and I'm going to do just what JJ did) the whole jing-gang end up unhappy back in happy valley. sounds cheesy, but note: its written by esteemed Samuel.
It seems the Real has been hitting me the past week. as opposed to reality, the Symbolic. trauma ensues (watch Hide and Seek, you'll see what I mean) and then neurosis (which includes my favourite: repetition), I wonder if talking to yourself is that, or psychosis.
talking cure, chocolate cure, Dad, Mum, Matt, Mun, Jen, Jon, Jesus. (in no order of preference)
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