(no subject)
It always seems as though the cigarettes are never long enough. The meals are never filling enough. The romance is never close enough. All I have to do is look at the spotlights on the clouds and count the number of orange dots from my balcony view. All unfulfilling, unchanging acts. In a city of temptations, there is a surprising lack of things to tempt me. You learn to recognize the sounds of the traffic without ever seeing the vehicles that make the noise. Cop car, cop car, firetruck, ambulance, cop car, ambulance, silence. Cop car, cop car...
In this city called violence, we are all criminals.
A cigarette was thrown on the ground, and a black-capped bird pecked at the discarded human addiction, hoping to find some sort of nutritional value in it. Now it only has a cancerous stomach and an awful craving for nicotine nutrition. Their instinct is to pick up our discarded excesses. Our instinct is to feed ourselves.
I look at other people an think that they are thinking about nothing at all. There is nothing to be extracted from them, nothing to make me believe that these tired future doctors and teachers and activists will save the world. I appear to myself that I am the only conscious being in this monoculture of the educated, but even that isn't true all the time, I know. I don't understand how these people invest so much time in portraying and image of sel-individualism, yet their faces show nothing individualistic at all. They look like tired and dead corpses wraped in colourful garments. I haven't seen an honest flicker of life or consciousness outside of the words I have read on a page. This is not the place for me. This is worse than a job you hate or a guilty apology you know you have to make. Its worse than the necessity of the things you loathe and know you have to do, because of its potential for admiration, or a useful outcome, or a breakthrough into consciousness. It is worse that the worst dreads because it is covering up something that doesn't need to be dreaded at all. I don't want a long coat or a messenger bag or a basket of laundry or a meal card or a headband, a fast food cup, day planner, speed reading lessons, money and mind debt, brown knee boots. I don't want to be dumber so I think I am smarter, poorer so I can be richer, more stylish so I can be less human, caffeinated to the point of nausea, nauseaous to the point of insanity, insane to the point of defeat. I want to be fed, clothed, hydrated, rested, loved, but also hungry, naked, thirsty, restless, hated. I never said I wanted the experience. I want to be conscious.
In this city called violence, we are all criminals.
A cigarette was thrown on the ground, and a black-capped bird pecked at the discarded human addiction, hoping to find some sort of nutritional value in it. Now it only has a cancerous stomach and an awful craving for nicotine nutrition. Their instinct is to pick up our discarded excesses. Our instinct is to feed ourselves.
I look at other people an think that they are thinking about nothing at all. There is nothing to be extracted from them, nothing to make me believe that these tired future doctors and teachers and activists will save the world. I appear to myself that I am the only conscious being in this monoculture of the educated, but even that isn't true all the time, I know. I don't understand how these people invest so much time in portraying and image of sel-individualism, yet their faces show nothing individualistic at all. They look like tired and dead corpses wraped in colourful garments. I haven't seen an honest flicker of life or consciousness outside of the words I have read on a page. This is not the place for me. This is worse than a job you hate or a guilty apology you know you have to make. Its worse than the necessity of the things you loathe and know you have to do, because of its potential for admiration, or a useful outcome, or a breakthrough into consciousness. It is worse that the worst dreads because it is covering up something that doesn't need to be dreaded at all. I don't want a long coat or a messenger bag or a basket of laundry or a meal card or a headband, a fast food cup, day planner, speed reading lessons, money and mind debt, brown knee boots. I don't want to be dumber so I think I am smarter, poorer so I can be richer, more stylish so I can be less human, caffeinated to the point of nausea, nauseaous to the point of insanity, insane to the point of defeat. I want to be fed, clothed, hydrated, rested, loved, but also hungry, naked, thirsty, restless, hated. I never said I wanted the experience. I want to be conscious.