13 — Remotely Artistic

No, it isn’t possible I have already told you this. I am too distracted these days to indulge myself in anything that’s even remotely artistic. Art requires concentration. I don’t have any. Makes sense? It doesn’t. Alright fine. If it has to be this way then be it. But I am not gonna change my mind. I am fit for what I am. Don’t aspire for something more.

It is not the word that hurts me, it’s the intent that shatters me apart. Words are merely the conclusion of an entire chain of thought. The process is complex, it can’t be judged, nor can be held as a grudge against with. Words are perceptible, thoughts are not.

I guess I have to lose my inhibitions really hard for this one.

And then it became crystal clear that all my obligations in life had not led to anything but a constant delirium. A force of sorts that’s pulling me apart with its estranged tone and estranged manners. It is not really forgiving, nor do I have the pain relevant enough to suffer long. Once the suffering ends, then what? Is then life full of constant boresome burdens and nothingness? A shallow surface has struck beneath me, beckoning me to go beyond my means. It’s insinuating and humiliating. What can we do after we have won the chase, or ended the battle once and for all? It’s not relevant thereon to continue living a life amassing dirt with every roll down the street. Sure you have a family to feed and an entire circus to look after, but once that’s over and done with, are you sure you want to live by that strange delirium?

I don’t have any plans to live beyond a certain age. I will do my time here on this prison that’s called earth and then end my life on purpose. For there’s not much to do around, to begin with. Sure you can come and succumb to your vanity but beyond that, it’s all a series of meaningless endeavors that you keep chasing on and on forever. An endless adobe of necessities and problems. Even if the problem doesn’t exist, that in itself is a fucking problem. Let me tell you what you should do all for once. You should go ahead and announce the world that you’re about to end your life. See if that gains any traction, see if it attracts any news. In case it does, you know you have a few more minutes before death, in case it doesn’t then you can die away in peace. That’s our fault, that’s really our fault. We attach too much importance.

I think it’s best to do my time and move on. I have places to go, more planets to be. I can go on living a nonsensical life or better yet die a meaningful death. What’s the point of flashing your persona right across the street when it won’t beget you any laugh. When it won’t beget you any sadness. It’s all the master’s plan to keep you hooked and waiting on and on forever, just like you keep your dog running around the snowfall mountain, going to fetch the ball. You never know what’s the point of it going and returning back to the same place. Nevertheless, I might as well be asleep now. The more I start grounding myself on this earth, the harder it becomes to let go. And if it gets hard to let go, then I might change my mind and just stay.

I think I might think about having a family of my own. See how that works out. A child will surely imprison me hard, bound me to a never-ending duty, and end all freedom. Right now I have no desires. I stay fulfilled with a day job and a night full of doing my thing, wandering the street, taping my thoughts. But once that’s done what’s next. I live a satisfactory life, do I really want it to change. No, I don’t.

I don’t know why I haven’t been able to beat this addiction of mine. Why does my mind demand this primordial stimulation all the fucking while! I have to do whatever it takes to delve out my penchant. What the fuck does penchant even mean! I don’t know if I just said it because it sounds fancy. See I am not good with simpler things, I am afraid of simplicity. I am a frustrated fuck who doesn’t really know how to live a simple fucking life. If things aren’t messed up or fucked up then I mostly stay dissatisfied that’s for sure. Without problems, life holds no worth for me. That’s how I define my worth again, with problems.

I guess I just have to just start out and figure out my way sooner than later. That way I won’t have to have the burden of thinking what I will do a thousand times over. I have to really stay away from friction eroding my mind. Because when it does, then there exists no point of existence. I guess you need to have pain in order to be convinced that there’s more to life than an endless droning. I am caught in a silent static blizzard. Where there is so much emptiness and a definitive pathway towards the end that seems not so distant. It’s a hostile stability that you beget and have no say over or under. I guess I miss the curves, this flatline is comforting but it’s evasive. It’s evasive towards my inner appetite for risk, that demands to stay dissatisfied.

Without hunger, there is no drive, with no drive I can’t do things beyond the bare minimum. I can just keep myself up and running and chase after virtues and vices, try to balance and figure them out. But pure beauty lies in injustice and malice and being degraded to the lowest kind. In the absolute denigration of a human soul exists the seed for betterment, for in the direst circumstance stems the finest forms of human representation. I guess I just had to make it all about humans again, did I?

Humanization stems from sympathy. Sympathy stems from forms of injustice. Injustice breeds impatience. Impatience yields drive. Drive begets resolution. Resolution births form. Form is the need we need. Without it nothing is. With it — everything is.

I don’t think I can go on doing this without a concrete vision any longer. I need some substance, something that is more vivid than dull, with a pointed poignancy. Else it’s all just endless droning and rant. I don’t fear anything anymore. Neither do I need avenues. What I need is to sustain the drive and continue and on and on forever.