(no subject)
7 years ago I watched someone die.
I was prepared for it by television.
I cannot say I was desensitized.
Rather that the moment seemed a lot longer.
That I was a lot more frantic.
It wasn't beautiful.
But violent.
And maybe born in that was a quest.
or was my artwork always dripping with blood?
Certainly I always favored pieces with gore.
It disgusts me.
Horrifies me.
Entraps me.
And here we are, surrounded in my own blood.
Whether painted on the page, squeezed through a tube full of corn syrup and red dye, or pushed through my own tiny puncture.
And what is a fetish if not just allowing yourself to play out fantasies that actually disgust you?
Or is it more?
Am I missing the point?
A fetish is something that is deemed disgusting by the general mass but in actuality is a person's get away. Their dream home. Their vacation spot. Their reprieve from that other existence.
Or maybe this entrapment by blood is something else.
Not perverse.
Just some fact that my mind cannot comprehend. Or, in the process of understanding, it turns into the mush and stuff the gore and ooze that makes me giggle hysterically while having blood taken.
And surely the phlebotomists think I'm weird/scary. Or, maybe they think neither.
Maybe most people walk around without considering life.
Or other people.
Just thinking about their menial task and mediocre lives.
Instead of the bigger picture. The smaller picture.
My life force is being sucked out of me to die in some vial, some numbered vial amongst a mass of other numbered vials. All my tiny particles, little clones of myself, a potential heart throb that those cells will never experience. They'll just die, alone, apart from me, never to know what it is to be part of the whole, never knowing that it doesn't know, or me never knowing that it does know.
Just apart, both dying at different speeds.
If I were killed immediately after giving blood, that vial of blood would outlive me, if only for a short while.
Fascination.
So much so that it's crippling.
Maybe I could have been a great doctor, though, I doubt it because my passions are fleeting and I get disgruntled about having to give my time to projects that last longer than a month.
No, never a great doctor.
Thankfully not a serial killer either,
while I have the handwriting for either profession,
I'm just too loving and honest of a person.
Sometime I wonder if I'm a sociopath.
Those moments when all I want is to be alone and I cannot hear the crying of my fellow man...
but I know I would never put it on them.
Because then I enter into their world and suddenly it's filled with FEELINGS and oh, how strong... how emotional...
So, no, I'm no sociopath.
But depressed.
Ah, yes.
But, this we knew, and this, is not a big deal.
It is a component of myself that I would not change, well, maybe only a little. To make my moments of true happiness even stronger and slightly more frequent.
I was prepared for it by television.
I cannot say I was desensitized.
Rather that the moment seemed a lot longer.
That I was a lot more frantic.
It wasn't beautiful.
But violent.
And maybe born in that was a quest.
or was my artwork always dripping with blood?
Certainly I always favored pieces with gore.
It disgusts me.
Horrifies me.
Entraps me.
And here we are, surrounded in my own blood.
Whether painted on the page, squeezed through a tube full of corn syrup and red dye, or pushed through my own tiny puncture.
And what is a fetish if not just allowing yourself to play out fantasies that actually disgust you?
Or is it more?
Am I missing the point?
A fetish is something that is deemed disgusting by the general mass but in actuality is a person's get away. Their dream home. Their vacation spot. Their reprieve from that other existence.
Or maybe this entrapment by blood is something else.
Not perverse.
Just some fact that my mind cannot comprehend. Or, in the process of understanding, it turns into the mush and stuff the gore and ooze that makes me giggle hysterically while having blood taken.
And surely the phlebotomists think I'm weird/scary. Or, maybe they think neither.
Maybe most people walk around without considering life.
Or other people.
Just thinking about their menial task and mediocre lives.
Instead of the bigger picture. The smaller picture.
My life force is being sucked out of me to die in some vial, some numbered vial amongst a mass of other numbered vials. All my tiny particles, little clones of myself, a potential heart throb that those cells will never experience. They'll just die, alone, apart from me, never to know what it is to be part of the whole, never knowing that it doesn't know, or me never knowing that it does know.
Just apart, both dying at different speeds.
If I were killed immediately after giving blood, that vial of blood would outlive me, if only for a short while.
Fascination.
So much so that it's crippling.
Maybe I could have been a great doctor, though, I doubt it because my passions are fleeting and I get disgruntled about having to give my time to projects that last longer than a month.
No, never a great doctor.
Thankfully not a serial killer either,
while I have the handwriting for either profession,
I'm just too loving and honest of a person.
Sometime I wonder if I'm a sociopath.
Those moments when all I want is to be alone and I cannot hear the crying of my fellow man...
but I know I would never put it on them.
Because then I enter into their world and suddenly it's filled with FEELINGS and oh, how strong... how emotional...
So, no, I'm no sociopath.
But depressed.
Ah, yes.
But, this we knew, and this, is not a big deal.
It is a component of myself that I would not change, well, maybe only a little. To make my moments of true happiness even stronger and slightly more frequent.