(no subject)
What a weird-ass fucking week. I think I'm the reincarnation of Jack Kerouac. I'm going to find out when he died; if it was before my birthday I'll have to completely reevaluate my whole view on eastern religions... even weirder since Jack Kerouac was a buddhist at one point I think.
On second thought, that's a stupid idea because people all over, all of the time also relentlessly pursue purpose, and it evades them. Everyone can be much more remarkably similar than people think at first, if you just look past the initial image people present. People who wear too much dark make-up and wear weird clothes and who have spent entire weeks in a drug-induced delirium; they've all visited the playground as a child, gotten sun-burned at the beach, witnessed a beautiful sunset and then thought about how stupid they are for going out of their way to feel awe. Same goes for angry ghetto kids and girls who spend all of their time at the dance studio and everyone else I've ever met. They all have weeks on end that feel somewhat empty and pointless and you just don't tell anyone for a while in case something happens and it feels like you have purpose again. Everybody wakes up at two or three in the morning sometimes.
I want to write out everything that happened to me in FL. 192 hours of constantly taking pictures at Annie's house, watching movies, wandering around Tampa at 3 in the morning on foot, watching Liz and Billy snort oxycodine, wondering what the fuck ever happened to James, finding myself in too many awkward situations, feeling empty and lost at midnight at Jafar's house, and waking up and feeling full and happy and ready to go to the mall. There was so much. Alot of it wouldn't impress anyone I suppose, except maybe they'd recognize as their own all of the undefined emotions that were so many and so present, and all of the speculations on how maybe life is that I kept making. Here's one: even if you do everything right and treat everyone better than they expect or sometimes need, even if you spend months planning things just right so that one moment might be perfect, even if the stage is set and all of the actors are ready to close their eyes and fall backwards into the storyline where theres a happy ending for everyone (even the bad guys): things can still get away from you. You will still fuck up sometimes (or all the time), but even when you do your perfect moment might still turn out pretty good; it could even be the happiest single instance in your life. You will fuck up alot too, because for all of the motions you go through and all of the plans you make, other people may completely ignore all of your hard work just because you never told them you'd done it all.
That part above took me over and hour to think out and reorganize and there's still probably and awful lot of errors in it. Now that I'm back "home" (SHUT UP ITS NOT MY FAULT) I feel like all I can do is make the best use of my time possible. I mean that's ALL I can do. My only option. I refuse to let any more weeks go by where I'm content with how I'm "coming along" with all of my work. It should be all of the time from now on, so that I can get at every last drop of creativity or emotion or childhood trauma (I still say I don't have any, but perhaps my opinion doesn't matter?) or whatever it is that I've got that keeps bugging me to remember all of my ideas and pursue them all. If I can't be with any of the people I love the most who can be found all over the fucking place, I will work as hard as I can to become better at everything I do so that maybe when I get to see any of them next they might be proud of me for something.
On second thought, that's a stupid idea because people all over, all of the time also relentlessly pursue purpose, and it evades them. Everyone can be much more remarkably similar than people think at first, if you just look past the initial image people present. People who wear too much dark make-up and wear weird clothes and who have spent entire weeks in a drug-induced delirium; they've all visited the playground as a child, gotten sun-burned at the beach, witnessed a beautiful sunset and then thought about how stupid they are for going out of their way to feel awe. Same goes for angry ghetto kids and girls who spend all of their time at the dance studio and everyone else I've ever met. They all have weeks on end that feel somewhat empty and pointless and you just don't tell anyone for a while in case something happens and it feels like you have purpose again. Everybody wakes up at two or three in the morning sometimes.
I want to write out everything that happened to me in FL. 192 hours of constantly taking pictures at Annie's house, watching movies, wandering around Tampa at 3 in the morning on foot, watching Liz and Billy snort oxycodine, wondering what the fuck ever happened to James, finding myself in too many awkward situations, feeling empty and lost at midnight at Jafar's house, and waking up and feeling full and happy and ready to go to the mall. There was so much. Alot of it wouldn't impress anyone I suppose, except maybe they'd recognize as their own all of the undefined emotions that were so many and so present, and all of the speculations on how maybe life is that I kept making. Here's one: even if you do everything right and treat everyone better than they expect or sometimes need, even if you spend months planning things just right so that one moment might be perfect, even if the stage is set and all of the actors are ready to close their eyes and fall backwards into the storyline where theres a happy ending for everyone (even the bad guys): things can still get away from you. You will still fuck up sometimes (or all the time), but even when you do your perfect moment might still turn out pretty good; it could even be the happiest single instance in your life. You will fuck up alot too, because for all of the motions you go through and all of the plans you make, other people may completely ignore all of your hard work just because you never told them you'd done it all.
That part above took me over and hour to think out and reorganize and there's still probably and awful lot of errors in it. Now that I'm back "home" (SHUT UP ITS NOT MY FAULT) I feel like all I can do is make the best use of my time possible. I mean that's ALL I can do. My only option. I refuse to let any more weeks go by where I'm content with how I'm "coming along" with all of my work. It should be all of the time from now on, so that I can get at every last drop of creativity or emotion or childhood trauma (I still say I don't have any, but perhaps my opinion doesn't matter?) or whatever it is that I've got that keeps bugging me to remember all of my ideas and pursue them all. If I can't be with any of the people I love the most who can be found all over the fucking place, I will work as hard as I can to become better at everything I do so that maybe when I get to see any of them next they might be proud of me for something.