I have removed everyone from my list as a friend. I encourage those who have me listed to do so likewise. My reasoning for this is, well, I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want anyone to be around. My interest in this never peeked too much, so I don't even know if I'll be sticking around with current events. I don't think this should cause many waves, given my lack of enthusiasm or participation in the online social scenario.
Still, I began long-winded, I should end so. I am a bastard. An artistic elitist. I see others, and what others create, and act like, and I don't like it. I don't like how you look, what you wear, how you talk, your haircut, the color of your car, the type of internet connection, what you know, or don't, your name, or what think. I just don't like you, where "you" is an ambiguous blanket person embodying everyone who is not me. That is not to say I enjoy the presence of myself terribly much.
So I can continue wasting my time on trite fluff bullshit, associating, conversing, interacting...or I can just not. I prefer the latter. See, there is nothing original left from people. The catchy phrases, clothes, one-liners, and the lies. Its not like all of this hasn't been repeated before. We just all pretend were interested by it, and that its new and different because we are so desperate to find one piece of fucking happiness in the goddamned godforsaken fucking hellhole, that we are willing to put up with damn near anything just to be part of Disney’s glorious fucking circle of life.
I'm less then enthralled at this point by trashy glitter. And to bitterly top it off, there is myself. I'm equally covered in this shit myself, and doubly guilty at the least. I engage in it, and swirl myself in the mire as much as the next slothful pig, and laugh, pretending to enjoy it, caught up in this self-delusion. There is no truth left, no art anymore, no spirit. I've lost mine. And why keep it. It’s not worth anything, except to you. And if you don’t value yourself, then its not really worth all that much, is it?
I feel tired. I want to just spend my days, drifting to sleep, and laugh in the dreams I used to trap myself in as a child, waking merely to draw them, and then return to them, and be happy, surround myself in their comfort. In there, exists life. Deep and fresh, instead of stagnant hanging clouds, dripping from them the same sludge reeking from the same demeanor of your fellow city dweller. There exist walls of color, and light, clouds that hint at no end to a horizon, and oceans that leave your mind to invent the bottom. Here we have ill yellow skies of a sick world, and piss-tainted garbage heaps that have been scientifically stripped of any need for imagination instead of oceans. Water here is societal-acid, twisting your insides and your spirit into something grotesque. There I can spend my waking dreams lounging in a feel of something joyful, and bathe in the feeling, wash myself in the ecstasy of it. Here, well, that sort of thing exists only in dreams here. What little there is, waxes and wanes like the moons, and drifts away, caught in the wind like little specks of pollen, to elusive to truly grasp.
Art, truth, and spirit have no redeemable value. It doesn't get you a one free burger if you buy one at the regular price. It doesn’t get you 0% financing. It doesn’t get you that Christmas bonus from the company, that you’ll never get anyways, or if you do, it’s going to be waste on something that you didn't exactly need anyways. Societally things are measured in a dollar amount, and well, this stuff sells for pennies on the dollar. Or sells out rather. And why try to keep your hold on it? I don't know. We work, or fight rather, to find a way to be happy, but all we truly end up doing in spending our entire life fighting? I haven’t seen an end, except in movies, or books. The latter I might give credence to the possibility of imitating life, if it wasn't for the fact that I see no example of it anywhere to imitate. So, ultimately, life is just about a fight with no end, no victory, so belt, or trophy. No reward, or grand cheer at the end. Not even water or smoke breaks half way though. So, What about someone who doesn't want to fight anymore ? What of someone who’s gone a few rounds, and decides, it just isn't worth it? Where do they go?
I don't even myself know how to be a good person. I know I am not one. I know when someone else is not one. How would I know what a good person is, anyways? I can't learn by example, because no one else knows how to either. When I was growing up, I was told drugs were bad. I found out that everyone, including those that told me that were doing drugs. I was told daddy was an alcoholic, and that I would be to, and that drinking was wrong. But as I grew up, I found out daddy just drank as much as mommy, which was as much as everyone else around. I was explained how sex was a sacred thing, to be cherished, and shared carefully, not tossed around haphazardly. But then, everyone I have met is sexually active, with damn near everyone else. There is no sacred connection. No one wants it. What they want is the greener pasture in this ever elusive "over there". You can't ever get there, because once you do, you're not there anymore. Its eternally, "over there", and that’s what everyone wants.
Well, I don’t want wants "over there", and I don't like what’s here. I can't go back, even though that wasn't very good either, so where does one go? I don't know. Sure as hell not here. Instead, I complain a bit, which is just as degrading as what I am complaining about, and swells a bitter sense of irony, as if some mythical god of old is laughing at from high up, because this twisted puzzle they created to trap us is so inescapable, that even when you are starring the answer in the face, you can't escape its clutches.
I admit, some part of me laughs also. There is a twisted humor to it all. So simple, and sad. Beauty in Simplicity. I've been touting that for a while, and never realized how deep that truth went. What an odd feeling to feel it thrown back at yourself, in so accurate a way. I feel the ill-humored part of myself will have a long, deep nostalgic laugh at this all.
Metaphorically speaking, the planet is ruled by monkeys on typewriters, and life is the joke being written.