Thursday, Jan. 23, 2003 - 10:15 a.m.

Salve for my wounds; a sense of completion. I depart for London seeking something, and I may well come back with nothing. But it matters not.

If I depart from all this - from pining for beauty, from sycophancy, from my peculiar method of skirting an issue while avoiding the necessary truths...I know the answers.

The world is all that is the case. And somewhere within this world I had thought that I might find...what to call it? A kindred soul? No, let me announce it as something more ethereal. I thought that I might find an end. I thought to wake up one morning and not to have to search anymore.

But it will not be so. I will find neither the person nor place of finality, and so I will have to be all of those things that I detest: an itinerant man, pliant, emotive, ensconced in a world that I have no particular passion for. I can't break away, no matter how much I will it.

It is not exactly that I am compromising my ideals - after all, is there any particular value in staying in one place for one's life, in being stubborn, in indifference? None bar the worth that I assign to these things.

But if I can accept the compromises what is it that troubles me? It is simple: I have nothing, no one thing, of my own. Not even these words, with their innumerable influences.

'...an unweeded garden grown to seed.' Indeed.

troilus

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