I hate nothing so much as a cliché and always try my best to avoid them. In everyday speech i mean, and also the clichéd occassion is one of my biggest hates, or sources of discomfort. Thus it is that sometimes i struggle to express myself, as i can by no means avoid the clichéd sentiment, unexpressed as it may be.
A cliché is dead language, a sure sign of not just unoriginal thought but actual lack of thought, mental lethargy. I am only saying this for myself, applying these standards only to myself, out of a feeling of necessity.

If i feel acted upon, as i often do, as is inevitable, rather than controlling the outcome and the direction of my time, it will lead me to a feeling of fatalism, doom, anxiety... I will be anxious because i am acted upon rather than acting independently, to realise my objectives in full autonomy and the most precise reasoning, unclouded by the prejudices of others, above all unencumbered by traditions of authority, that decree how my life should be. My time is structured by others, by tradition, and thus are my activities, my loves, my very dreams affected and circumscribed. Others may have adapted to this. I never have.
I feel dirtied by the obcene tides of time, ever ebbing and falling, catching me and soaking all my labours with their stink. Hours and days flow past me. I jump through hoops, by someone else's decree, as though prodded into life by a jolt of electricity. I am not grateful, i am sorry and enraged. So much of my lassitude and misery comes from this ingrained attitude of looking at time, seeing the inevitability of certain actions, which arise as part of "playing the game", at the behest of others, not in accordance with me as an autonomous, thinking, independent being, full of awareness and reason, but merely as though i had been reduced to the status of an object that is "acted upon".

Of anything distinct from the world of sensation there is nothing that can be said for certain... hence my sickening uncertainty. I am not even certain of my loves or hates except momentarilly. I am an intermittent revolutionary, i even have sudden flashes of conservatism. But i am neither one nor the other. It is only the primitive type of man that loves wholeheartedly, or can give his passions consistently. But he is also happier, more fulfilled.
Those who have given their lives to an ideal, say a formalised and rigid ideal such as Christianity, are often content and may appear smug, considering themselves of the elect. But their mythology supplies them with a mystical, quiescent satisfaction. A man like me can only yearn for a satisfaction like that, because belief of any kind in absolute certainties is exactly what i find most difficult.

Everywhere around us now we see signs of isolation.
We hear isolating songs on the radio, see isolating images on TV, and hear from the mouths of
casual acquaintances isolating talk.
Our life is a state of tension, purposefully bent that way by the masters of our time, who are the masters of madness.
If i adhere to negation, inversion, it is partially out of cowardice but, more widely, out of a passion for meaning that is misplaced in our time. What i miss is certainty.
What i wish most fervently is never to delude myself.
I am in prison, it seems.