My Stoddard Temple

Today I feel like writing for an audience. And it's ironic that this is the only place I can say that without intending it for any other reason than to just express just that simple fact, where nobody else can read it.

Let me explain, for the benefit of my failing memory, why it is tonight that I feel this way. Sometimes you feel compelled by not a certain event but a series of them, and I'm personally not really a fan of blogging about events, but here goes.

Last night a particular conversation made me wonder if it's time that I let someone step forward and renew my clear lack of respect for humanity, where humanity is what I see of it and not what I believe in my own head, namely my own ideals.

I was reading about the credit crunch today, and it made me wonder if any respect I will now acquire for humanity will be temporary and falsely created. In view of the mumbling idiots who thought of it a few years ago and those who sat by without realising where it's going to take them. Maybe the Statue of Liberty is incomplete, because holding up the torch doesn't remove the filth where the light doesn't shine.

And another conversation last night made me realise that there's nothing I know in the world that could be classified as "informed malice", and it made me wonder why I believe in such a concept in the first place. Maybe Ellsworth M. Toohey is nothing but an impossibility. But I still don't see how the world is getting where it is without such a helping hand.

Lastly, I'm in the middle of the Fountainhead. That explains my choice of title, the line just blew me away. But my reference to Toohey has nothing to do with my reading the Fountainhead right now. I've always felt that way, even before I read the Fountainhead, except now I have a name for it. Maybe it's because I fell asleep reading it, but it makes me slightly depressed. Strangely it has nothing to do with being homesick, because I'm not homesick. It's because of something between the fact that I didn't regret missing dinner today and the fact that my idealism isn't failing, and yet I'm afraid to express that in writing.


In true fashion of how I feel about all this:

shrugs.