Dear Diary,
I sit in quiet contemplation, wondering whether it is worth it. Music. Friends. Life. It's all down the pan, to entropy, no-one. Nothing. I am dreaming of the mountain hideaway, the sanctuary that is not. The root cause of it all is I feel a lack of intellect about me, here in this countryside town. Sure, it has its share of artists, but it is not enough. Sabir, where art thou? To know...
I am anticipating the arrival of a new composition. A score I shall pen, a tune, harmony, to compose and be imaginative. Leave these other people behind. Trim off the chaff. I am in an ivory tower intellectually, heavily marginalised. A singularity. Not the imagined technological robotic revolution, but an autonomous isolation. Amongst a sea of anti-educationalists, it is not easy to be a brainiac; stigmatized, outcast, adrift. At the very least I have a home to be thankful for, I can be free to live securely, in peace. No-one can comprehend what it is like to be me. No-one. Nothing. Another week of stone-cold sobriety. Freedom through poverty. A loss of affluence by way of opting out of society. An Ishmæl: in the older sense. A rover at heart.
Max.
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