or life is yours to miss

My journal ... seems to be little more than a record of an unexamined life, full of triviality and the exaltation of others and not much else.

cherrypep tells me that it's "ironic that [I] describe [my] journal this way, when [my] journal could often be perceived as part of the very Socratic process of dialectic." The problem is that it's only part of the process. The illusion of examination is there - the raising of various issues in my life and things that are important to me - but the actual examination is not. I place trivialities on a pedestal, or exalt others and their words, and then move on, and I remain exposed but unexamined. I can go back and look at old entries and see myself pinned to a tray, lying in half-dissected mockery of state, my heart and lungs and pancreas exposed - but I can't say why, or what purpose those organs, or that exposure, serve.

If you are, perhaps, inclined to wonder why I haven't been posting much recently, it is because I am looking for that purpose.