Because I feel like being self important
I'm going to pretend someone is reading this. The Smiths have sort of been on my mind today. I think the lyric of the day is
"It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes strength to be gentle and kind"-I Know It's Over
Morrissey said something to the effect of "The Smiths only happened because I walked home in the rain one too many nights." I've done my fair share of walking in the rain, but it's never going to produce something like that. I picture Morrissey walking in the rain and the cars gliding through puddles sounding like music with the pitter patter of drops of water hitting the sidewalk like the rhythm of a drum. That is not how I walk in the rain. The wind and my umbrella spite me and my umbrella turns inside out. I get soaked and I spend fifteen minutes trying to flip said umbrella into its correct shape. I miss the walk signal four times. I'm not paying attention to sound of the cars gliding through the puddles, I'm focused on trying to dodge being splashed. It's not really graceful or poet, it's like the opening scene to one of those "Everything always goes wrong in my life" movies, except Hugh Grant does not spill his coffee on me fifteen seconds later and smile charmingly. If I'm lucky I'll restore my umbrella back to normal and be dry as I contemplate going home or getting a cup of hot chocolate. I think about the universe but when I try to write down my thoughts later I realize that they weren't as poetic as they seemed outside. I realize I'm nowhere near being a prolific thinker and I'm just a dumb college student. C'est la vie I suppose.
I've known for a long time that life is meaningless and not nearly as neat and pretty as a song or a movie. But it's still a hard concept to grapple with when you're cold and wet and just wish something beautiful would happen. I wonder what it's like for Morrissey to walk home in the rain. Maybe it's not like what I picture at all, maybe he wrestles with his umbrella too. Maybe he wrote pages and pages of stupid crap before coming along something worth while. Maybe not. We forget that artists are humans since the very concept of good art is something seeming not of this earth. Things which are too exquisite to be real are art. Exquisite beauty, exquisite ugliness, exquisite joy, exquisite anguish. Art looks at the universe through a different lens than the lens of wet glasses.
The world can flow through me like poetry but when the poetry flows through my fingertips and onto a page it becomes muddy and weird again. It becomes being splashed by cars and not hearing the music in rain. If I believed in anything other than a chaotic world that does not give a damn about any of us I'd say I was cursed. I don't believe in anything other than a chaotic world that does not give a damn about us so I clearly cannot believe I'm cursed, I believe I am a victim of my own creation and am merely stupid. My existence was just like anyone else's at the beginning but the essence which I have created from it (by an act of my own will and perhaps the influence of external forces that fell upon me by chance) is a piece of crap. Oh to be young and angst ridden!
Some days I feel like I'm turning into Gregor Samsa, pre monstrous vermin. I'm just someone who gets up every morning and goes through the motions of the day without anything of substance to extract from my experience. I can only wish to wake up to be a giant cockroach maybe then I'd feel something really beautiful. But that's not going to happen, because no one wakes up as a giant cockroach and no one can opt to have their life written by Kafka instead of a shapeless meaningless blob with no edges that does not give a fuck about you or anyone else. So I guess I should give up on looking for anything and just study French like I'm supposed to. This Polina K, wishing for fiction living in a world of broken umbrellas. Over and out you crazy kids!
"It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes strength to be gentle and kind"-I Know It's Over
Morrissey said something to the effect of "The Smiths only happened because I walked home in the rain one too many nights." I've done my fair share of walking in the rain, but it's never going to produce something like that. I picture Morrissey walking in the rain and the cars gliding through puddles sounding like music with the pitter patter of drops of water hitting the sidewalk like the rhythm of a drum. That is not how I walk in the rain. The wind and my umbrella spite me and my umbrella turns inside out. I get soaked and I spend fifteen minutes trying to flip said umbrella into its correct shape. I miss the walk signal four times. I'm not paying attention to sound of the cars gliding through the puddles, I'm focused on trying to dodge being splashed. It's not really graceful or poet, it's like the opening scene to one of those "Everything always goes wrong in my life" movies, except Hugh Grant does not spill his coffee on me fifteen seconds later and smile charmingly. If I'm lucky I'll restore my umbrella back to normal and be dry as I contemplate going home or getting a cup of hot chocolate. I think about the universe but when I try to write down my thoughts later I realize that they weren't as poetic as they seemed outside. I realize I'm nowhere near being a prolific thinker and I'm just a dumb college student. C'est la vie I suppose.
I've known for a long time that life is meaningless and not nearly as neat and pretty as a song or a movie. But it's still a hard concept to grapple with when you're cold and wet and just wish something beautiful would happen. I wonder what it's like for Morrissey to walk home in the rain. Maybe it's not like what I picture at all, maybe he wrestles with his umbrella too. Maybe he wrote pages and pages of stupid crap before coming along something worth while. Maybe not. We forget that artists are humans since the very concept of good art is something seeming not of this earth. Things which are too exquisite to be real are art. Exquisite beauty, exquisite ugliness, exquisite joy, exquisite anguish. Art looks at the universe through a different lens than the lens of wet glasses.
The world can flow through me like poetry but when the poetry flows through my fingertips and onto a page it becomes muddy and weird again. It becomes being splashed by cars and not hearing the music in rain. If I believed in anything other than a chaotic world that does not give a damn about any of us I'd say I was cursed. I don't believe in anything other than a chaotic world that does not give a damn about us so I clearly cannot believe I'm cursed, I believe I am a victim of my own creation and am merely stupid. My existence was just like anyone else's at the beginning but the essence which I have created from it (by an act of my own will and perhaps the influence of external forces that fell upon me by chance) is a piece of crap. Oh to be young and angst ridden!
Some days I feel like I'm turning into Gregor Samsa, pre monstrous vermin. I'm just someone who gets up every morning and goes through the motions of the day without anything of substance to extract from my experience. I can only wish to wake up to be a giant cockroach maybe then I'd feel something really beautiful. But that's not going to happen, because no one wakes up as a giant cockroach and no one can opt to have their life written by Kafka instead of a shapeless meaningless blob with no edges that does not give a fuck about you or anyone else. So I guess I should give up on looking for anything and just study French like I'm supposed to. This Polina K, wishing for fiction living in a world of broken umbrellas. Over and out you crazy kids!