Go through the temple and step towards the light.
I always have great difficulty opening up these diatribes. My attempts at relateable dialogue are so astringent that it's laughable. But I've always known, the best muse during inspirational droughts is to know yourself. So here it is, cut and dry, collagen-free with a 60% discount on the currency of egoism. I have no time for lies and fantasy, and neither should you.
A life of self-indulgence, of splendor, of lavish. This is what I've always wanted. To see an endless collection of books, and to know I can have it, without some dumbfuck calling my strip tease profit "dirty money". To spend three weeks in Berlin taking photographs of five day old corpses of homeless men neglected in the streets, to see the Palio in Siena, to strum my words like the strings of a guitar. Would I exchange this for convention and structure, for a husband and children and shaky illusions of self-importance? Morals are a mere phantasm, a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I'd rather have money, friends with free spirits stripped bare, pansexual lovers that can seduce me in seven languages. And here I am, the illusion of a "mess". My eyeshadow is layered like strata in a sedimentary rock. My hair is long like a fiery red snake, the skin around my fingernails is scarred and chapped, my arms a trainwreck of criss-crossed, pillowy scar tissue. I use my body and my skin as a garment that is worth a million dollars, my aspired dancing as a variation of artistic expression, my words and voice as a theatre with sliding panels and trapdoors.
The problem with people is they take this shit far too literally. They make you feel dubious about having a voice because they have none of their own. They instead decide to distract themselves with fool's gold and self-deceit. I've seen them call their vices "hobbies". I've seen them open up Photoshop and gamma correction their pictures with slimming shadows to conceal their unsightly flab with an eclipse of pretense.
How can we be self-indulgent if we're bogged down with time constraints, obligations, and guilt-ridden lectures?
What about me? What about me? Now I realize this is not Survivor, and I am not speaking strategically. If you love someone, you compromise - Isn't that what they always tell you? And yet, the collapse of character also begins with severe compromise, which brings a tremendous discomfort to everyone that's steamrollered with diplomacy. You see many people that are constantly humiliated by love, by people that don't embrace the hedonistic inner child that dwells within all of us. They would rather pigeonhole the concept of "romance" into a demographic or scheme, a rulebook of jealousy, insecurity and general shitass vibes. Instead of just appreciating what just is, they guideline things into monogamy versus polygamy and other such obnoxious topics that I wouldn't waste my fucking piss arguing with you about if you disagreed with me. In the 17th century, androgyny and multiple lovers were considered the essense of seduction and freedom - Now, it is lamblasted or pegged into some gimmicky reality show niche.
You spend so much time feeling like everything and nothing at the same time that you may as well be the chemical, bleached personality of cocaine snorted up a junkie's blood-crusted nose. Dissolving into the brain fissures into a society gone stagnant.
A myriad of goths (remember, an architecture, not a style) scratching themselves with thumbtacks because Daddy Dearest bought their Dodge Viper in the wrong shade of blue: a millimeter scritch-scratch representing their "inner tumult" of, well, not recieving constant injections of bathos and pathos from the syringe of Conditioned Melodramatic Teen Response. And then...
Flash to their trashy black-lipsticked mouths chewing Godsmack flavored bubble gum, dribbling red candle wax on This Is The New Shit, jerking their jacob's ladder pierced schlongs for a hot-gushing, butt-cramping orgasm over Jhonen Vasquez's "Johnny" comics. Thigh flab straining against $60 vinyl pants from Lip Service. And perhaps the most offensive: typing "enlightening" ephiphanies about how "they shouldn't be judged" and "only the strong survive". While crying into a boquet of dead roses, plucked from a local cemetary.
It's the people who preach about strength who have never been in a situation where they've needed to prove their strength. Those who are truly strong, they keep going.
There's simply no time to pause and lecture people about "proving themselves", the hours are just terribly inconvienant.
I believe in the concept of energy that is not divine, but universal. Earthier connotations, if you will. Scientifically speaking, we are all composed with fuck-tons of matter. Our corpses fertilize the soil along with the maggots and the flesh flies, contributing to a flawless eco-system, and recycling our waste into an infinite leakage of energy that discharges into the grass that we stomp on. My belief in spiritual aspects does not equate with the white-light hodgepodge of shuffling pasteboards to foretell a future which has lost any meaning. To our knowledge, death is a cessation of consciousness. Anyone who tries to insist otherwise is florid with pretention, or reeks of fear. Religion is gambling - a hot trot to the casino of disillusionment, more likely to lose everything you've betted on (Heaven) than to rake in the chips and triumph.
Are we that weak that we need religions as a security net?
Why gamble? Is it for the thrill of the chase, the probability of great reward, or are we masochists?
Before this seems like another bitch-festive young adult philosophical conundrum - which it is - allow me to make one final point before you return to your regularly scheduled programming. Is it disgustingly corrupt that we live in a society where people lie about rape for attention while real victims suffer in downtrodden support groups hugging complete strangers? Or is it sheer artistic brilliance? We always seem torn between pitying these people (as long as they're charged by the hour), ignoring these people, or shifting in our chairs with a mix of discomfort and disgust. But, who the fuck cares? Sure, they do fuck-all in increasing awareness towards real tragedy, but isn't this self-righteous indignation coming from people who buy cat food with rape-fantasy money directed from the studios of their porn professions? Are these angered individuals not having wrist-cramps from fingering themselves so frequently to spread-eagled femmes with cigars and a spattering of come smeared along their airbrushed faces? Does it annoy me at times? Indeed, but the reality eventually sinks in that people will not change in their quest for sympathy and spotlight. Everybody is lying to you, and every compliment is usually a compensation for ten negative things they say when your back is turned.
Just like thousands of strokes of paint can create a masterpiece, isn't it humorous that the right or wrong combination of words can make or break an entire person's perspective?
"Disjointed" seems to be the operative bullet-point in all my musings. But it's impossible to stay on one topic when they're all so painfully obvious.
Smile.
A life of self-indulgence, of splendor, of lavish. This is what I've always wanted. To see an endless collection of books, and to know I can have it, without some dumbfuck calling my strip tease profit "dirty money". To spend three weeks in Berlin taking photographs of five day old corpses of homeless men neglected in the streets, to see the Palio in Siena, to strum my words like the strings of a guitar. Would I exchange this for convention and structure, for a husband and children and shaky illusions of self-importance? Morals are a mere phantasm, a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I'd rather have money, friends with free spirits stripped bare, pansexual lovers that can seduce me in seven languages. And here I am, the illusion of a "mess". My eyeshadow is layered like strata in a sedimentary rock. My hair is long like a fiery red snake, the skin around my fingernails is scarred and chapped, my arms a trainwreck of criss-crossed, pillowy scar tissue. I use my body and my skin as a garment that is worth a million dollars, my aspired dancing as a variation of artistic expression, my words and voice as a theatre with sliding panels and trapdoors.
The problem with people is they take this shit far too literally. They make you feel dubious about having a voice because they have none of their own. They instead decide to distract themselves with fool's gold and self-deceit. I've seen them call their vices "hobbies". I've seen them open up Photoshop and gamma correction their pictures with slimming shadows to conceal their unsightly flab with an eclipse of pretense.
How can we be self-indulgent if we're bogged down with time constraints, obligations, and guilt-ridden lectures?
What about me? What about me? Now I realize this is not Survivor, and I am not speaking strategically. If you love someone, you compromise - Isn't that what they always tell you? And yet, the collapse of character also begins with severe compromise, which brings a tremendous discomfort to everyone that's steamrollered with diplomacy. You see many people that are constantly humiliated by love, by people that don't embrace the hedonistic inner child that dwells within all of us. They would rather pigeonhole the concept of "romance" into a demographic or scheme, a rulebook of jealousy, insecurity and general shitass vibes. Instead of just appreciating what just is, they guideline things into monogamy versus polygamy and other such obnoxious topics that I wouldn't waste my fucking piss arguing with you about if you disagreed with me. In the 17th century, androgyny and multiple lovers were considered the essense of seduction and freedom - Now, it is lamblasted or pegged into some gimmicky reality show niche.
You spend so much time feeling like everything and nothing at the same time that you may as well be the chemical, bleached personality of cocaine snorted up a junkie's blood-crusted nose. Dissolving into the brain fissures into a society gone stagnant.
A myriad of goths (remember, an architecture, not a style) scratching themselves with thumbtacks because Daddy Dearest bought their Dodge Viper in the wrong shade of blue: a millimeter scritch-scratch representing their "inner tumult" of, well, not recieving constant injections of bathos and pathos from the syringe of Conditioned Melodramatic Teen Response. And then...
Flash to their trashy black-lipsticked mouths chewing Godsmack flavored bubble gum, dribbling red candle wax on This Is The New Shit, jerking their jacob's ladder pierced schlongs for a hot-gushing, butt-cramping orgasm over Jhonen Vasquez's "Johnny" comics. Thigh flab straining against $60 vinyl pants from Lip Service. And perhaps the most offensive: typing "enlightening" ephiphanies about how "they shouldn't be judged" and "only the strong survive". While crying into a boquet of dead roses, plucked from a local cemetary.
It's the people who preach about strength who have never been in a situation where they've needed to prove their strength. Those who are truly strong, they keep going.
There's simply no time to pause and lecture people about "proving themselves", the hours are just terribly inconvienant.
I believe in the concept of energy that is not divine, but universal. Earthier connotations, if you will. Scientifically speaking, we are all composed with fuck-tons of matter. Our corpses fertilize the soil along with the maggots and the flesh flies, contributing to a flawless eco-system, and recycling our waste into an infinite leakage of energy that discharges into the grass that we stomp on. My belief in spiritual aspects does not equate with the white-light hodgepodge of shuffling pasteboards to foretell a future which has lost any meaning. To our knowledge, death is a cessation of consciousness. Anyone who tries to insist otherwise is florid with pretention, or reeks of fear. Religion is gambling - a hot trot to the casino of disillusionment, more likely to lose everything you've betted on (Heaven) than to rake in the chips and triumph.
Are we that weak that we need religions as a security net?
Why gamble? Is it for the thrill of the chase, the probability of great reward, or are we masochists?
Before this seems like another bitch-festive young adult philosophical conundrum - which it is - allow me to make one final point before you return to your regularly scheduled programming. Is it disgustingly corrupt that we live in a society where people lie about rape for attention while real victims suffer in downtrodden support groups hugging complete strangers? Or is it sheer artistic brilliance? We always seem torn between pitying these people (as long as they're charged by the hour), ignoring these people, or shifting in our chairs with a mix of discomfort and disgust. But, who the fuck cares? Sure, they do fuck-all in increasing awareness towards real tragedy, but isn't this self-righteous indignation coming from people who buy cat food with rape-fantasy money directed from the studios of their porn professions? Are these angered individuals not having wrist-cramps from fingering themselves so frequently to spread-eagled femmes with cigars and a spattering of come smeared along their airbrushed faces? Does it annoy me at times? Indeed, but the reality eventually sinks in that people will not change in their quest for sympathy and spotlight. Everybody is lying to you, and every compliment is usually a compensation for ten negative things they say when your back is turned.
Just like thousands of strokes of paint can create a masterpiece, isn't it humorous that the right or wrong combination of words can make or break an entire person's perspective?
"Disjointed" seems to be the operative bullet-point in all my musings. But it's impossible to stay on one topic when they're all so painfully obvious.
Smile.