This isn’t poetical. This isn’t musical. This isn’t philosophical. This is a temper tantrum. I’m so mad at myself for being so hard on myself. I’ve limited my own possibilities based upon an unjust prejudice of self-understanding, which, up until now, has grounded my purpose. I could have been a better activist for phenomenology. I could have been a better activist for hermeneutics. I could have been a better activist for science, in general. But, more importantly, I could have been a better activist for myself, and my life would not have been so irrationally unsettled for the past couple of years. Or maybe I can fit a purpose to my sufferings in squalor, banished from the light of academic premises on account my inept accounting for rigorous edicts enacted by truly entitled authority.
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