J’s Diary Entry

Tuesday, 27 June 1995

Sometimes I think about how much I’d like to explain myself fully to someone.  Someone who would just sit there quietly, open and non-judging.  I’d like to explain to them how a cheery boy with a love of reading developed a penchant for books exploring the “darker regions of the soul” he had not personally acquainted himself with.  Smitten thus with the romance of tragedy, aberration and mental illness that produced such literary genius, he sought to emulate it, and successfully obtained the means but sadly not the end.  I want to tell someone this little bourgeois tragedy, but fear the vulnerability of confession.  I’m afraid I’ll be laughed at.  I’m afraid I’ll be ostracized by a poorly chosen confessor who might lack understanding.  I just want impassive acknowledgement I think.  I have enough pity for myself, I do not require that of others.

Jesus Sketch by J