my life is so bloody ironic.

something i had perhaps subconsciously wished for had surfaced and at this juncture i'm half-wishing it hadn't. the past returns to bite me from behind. i am ambivalent; i am in turmoil. and i am angry and i am bewildered.

fate and the other people (largely the latter) conspire against best-laid plans. and this is perhaps why history cannot be that of progress, because men make their own history but not in circusmtances of their own choosing, and events progress in an annoyingly circular or spiral fashion. things ought to move on and yet they don't.

speaking of history, it is almost 2 am and i am working on a napoleon essay which is already far too long.

screw that.

and screw philosophy and poetry, the world of ideals, which only serve to raise our hopes before dashing them brutally against the rocks.