Perhaps listening to Brahms' haunting piano symphony does something to a certain person whose future is so uncertain and clouded with doubt and perhaps even no hope in the face of "the work world" and looming obscurity. Maybe this doubt is all that one has to hold on to. Maybe, when one is beset by stress and personal anguish and a slew of emotions so variegated and richly human that one could marvel at them...as long as it wasn't them that was possessing this slew all at the same time, then life can be appreciated for what it is, whatever it is. When one stands on the beach at night, with only the moon out and so perfect and far, with the throbbing of bass behind that person somewhere in the inhuman neighborhood with the drunks and the fools and the groping hands and the leering faces and the moist vaginas and the whole broad scope of senses and actions in an alcohol induced fiesta, then perhaps someone can appreciate life. When a car rams someone two paces in front of you, and you are spared and he is twisted and shattered by the front grille, one begins to appreciate. Then, one has to wonder just what the hell sort of cruelty it is to be here; to witness such terrible things in a world that admires love and war at the same time, in a world where there are saints and tyrants who are both worthless and mindless in the broad scope of things, where one has to cloud his or her mind with religion just to find comfort. With the Brahms symphony playing and the surf gently lapping onto the sand and the moon so beautiful and distant at the same time, one small person is beset by the sheer magnitude of existence, and confronted also with the seeming pointlessness of things and the sorrow of a reality that is at once heroic and pathetic in the same breath. When a man sees a woman and loves her and desires to give her whatever she wants, and then sees her walk away as if breaking hearts is something natural, then that man has no choice but to lose faith in love, at least until love makes some effort to mend its pitiful reputation. I'm done fucking around. This is me, complicated as I am, and I don't have time for jackoffs who like to play games and are so screwed up inside that they fuck around with other people. When life has no meaning, and is absurd and tragic and so awful you just want to go off somewhere and be one within yourself, then perhaps you are living. Maybe pointlessness is the point. Maybe a heart is meant to be rended by greedy thieves, and when someone falls in love, that action was a fluke, an accident, and not meant to be. In any case, there will be love and war, friendship and compassion, lust and heat long after this insignificance is gone, and hopefully not soon.