(no subject)
lessons from namibia:
i've been verbally abused.
Another night in a deadened town, new years seems to have seeped the remainder of any sort-of diginity from the fun-seeker and over-the-wall decadent egotists. Another experiment in sociality. Another hunter’s dry.
"Give me decadence.
flash!" **
Give me dignity..
Just fucking say something,boy
Responsiveness, I have found, has never been a free-for-all, and those are the bidders I seek. The conversationalists. The transcendentalists. The on-track one-track fucked out talkers who blow your mind with their ramblings of sorts. If you’ve hit the wall once to often you should know it’s because you’re not a verbal type. All good decisions come with an acknowledgement of the intentions of your quest on a verbal level. Why else would they force alcoholics or sexaholics or druga-fukcin-holics to utter those potent words : “I’m an addict” of course the addict (prior to having the label) had known of his state, or it should have been there on some level of mental engagement. Nobody loosely allows their caretakers(be it spouses or nosey neighbours or dead mothers) to throw them into an institution or prayer group or highschool principal’s office had the thought nhot crossed their mind: maybe I have a problem? The difference is the ventriloquism of the mind - the air on the diaphragm.
Voicebox.juicebox.
Emotional ventilation is a scarcity not often found in modern man. They’re saturated by the fear of their own falure. Case in point: these strung out individuals I have had the pleasure (subjective term sic,) to meet on my little cathartic quest (I have verbalized this attribute many times, therefore making it an actual quest and not some made up loose physical shift a few latitudes to the north)
These boys(another very subjective term - their passports tell a different tale) have had the pleasure to live in neverland for the remainder of their youth and are eagerly trailing along this witchunt to some netherworld where all is well - not once, stopping for one second -
“I have a problem.
I am afraid.
Help me.”
The word love is spread thin over it all.: “I’m still looking” they half-heartedly utter - well, my friend, if you truly are still looking; why is there a seventeen-year-old in your bed? Did you find the answer in her red-drunk eyes, rat-breath Lolita?
They’ve long ago given up on fighting their reputations: they have come to define themselves by their miserable failures, and these failures in turn become a long line of words strung together at any occasion where verbalization is sought. At the braai he is the boy whose mother died when he was in matric, he could never attain his highschool diploma. Aw, shame. So THAT’s why he’s that way. At the next bar the boy is still he-who-failed-school-because-of-mother’s-death.
Shame.
Isn’t it such a tragedy?
Look into the light.
Baby, baby, love - Let me hold you tonight.
So says boy who struggles to find love: “I need intimacy, I need love”
Love is too thinly spread amongst them. It has come to constitute sex. When they do find love they’d be to lazy to converse. To blinded by their mirror-eyes to ask how their loved one was doing after work. Because they have for too long been the-boy-whose-mom-died-so-he-couldn’t-finish-matric, the-boy-who-got-slapped-around-by-his-dad, his-fiancee-left-him-at-the-altar, she-asked-him-to-never-come-back.
Your life in the past tense is a graveyard. Your life does not constitute you. You determine it, the brave leader at the wheel of a train which goes in any direction of your very own whim and fancy. Stop telling the same stories. Else you’ll forever be seeking a new audience to give it to you.
Love?
A fuck?
Talk to me. Say something new. God, boy, you’re way too good looking to be that sad.
** Chuck Palahniuk "invisible monsters"