PART ONE
REFLECTIONS ON LIFE
I sit here and reflect on my life. My birthday's on the 24th; I'm turning 26; my birthday's a good time to reflect. Following shall be a incoherent jumble of thoughts that are going through my mind right now while zoning out to Radiohead, Sigur Ros, and other trippy music. In other words, another weird blog from me. What a surprise.
There's so many fucking facets to life. But, you see, the answer is so simple. And, that, of course, is the thing. So many themes are constantly explored by cinema, books, etc. today. Drug use, love, war, revenge, heroism, courage, justice, cowardice, death, etc. But somehow, this all meshes into a single, coherent answer. All the puzzle pieces fit together to illustrate an image that makes sense. All this shit somehow makes sense.
We all get tired with our lives. Routine, performing the same actions in the same order. Sure, maybe they're varied depending on your job, etc. But we still all brush our teeth (hopefully, you filthy internet motherfuckers). And society, it dictates that we too are puzzle pieces, that we all have a part to play, and that we must consistently perform our jobs in order for the big picture to consistently make sense.
I love my job. And I'm lucky in that regard. But we all have our moments, whether we openly admit it or not. Late at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about life. I know I'm not alone in that. Thinking if this hamster wheel we continually run in is for nothing. If at the end of our lives our goals and aspirations are so dead in us that the most we can hope for is a nicely trimmed lawn, a fucking mathematical flower bed, a car with extra seats for the kids, a nice TV set, nice material shit. All this artificial shit, this fucking perfect society of materialistic content, subdued shadows of our potential.
And our goals that I speak of? When you're a kid you dream of curing cancer, discovering life on other planets, true aspirations. Then, as we grow older, what do we wish for? Enough money in our 401(k) to retire. The leather seats in our car. What happens? At which point do we unwittingly decide to conform?
What is truly human nature? To be wild, feral, to have an ever changing life of chaos, danger, excitement, different shit? Being a warrior? Or is it rather to build a society, have leadership? There are still warriors and sheepdogs in today's society, but they are rare. So, like so many before me, I suggest that human nature too is a mirror of the larger picture; complex yet simple in a way we cannot understand. We long for the excitement and primal chaos of the life of a warrior, yet cannot live without the comfort of an established society. Even "tribes" of warriors have some sort of leadership. There is a reason we have leadership today, because that is natural human tendency to have some form of government.
So can we never truly be happy? Are we doomed to always long for that which we can never attain, because our goals are conflicting?
Some offer spirituality as a solution. They say truly spiritual people such as the Dalai Lama have reached peace with themselves. That they understand. Understand what, though? The "answer"? So is it that we as human beings wish to understand that answer, but are unwilling to do away with the security and comfort of our regulated and shaped lives in order to attain it? These Holy Men, what have they done? Have they found "God"?
I don't believe in God as a single, omniscient entity. I do believe, however, there is some sort of energy, of power in the universe. Some force that shapes our lives, some force that...fate? Do I believe in fate? Well, let's examine coincidences for a minute. Coincidences. Movies have explored this theme, such as Magnolia. Are there coincidences? I personally don't believe so. I believe that everything has a predetermined path, and we are all pieces walking through our predetermined lives as part of the larger puzzle. So, yeah, I believe in fate.
We don't like to think this, however. We would understandably much rather be in control of our lives, our "destiny".
And an idea emerges. But I can't express it. Because everything has already been said before. My voice is silent, and my point is moot.
PART TWO
A DEVIATION INTO THE BIZARRE
In this section I shall be freestyling prose. Or, rather, writing the shit that comes to my mind, bitch.
Neon sun rising above a house on a piece of paper. The hand moves, shading it in in grey lead, diagonal strokes. Location:
Well, it's your house, you see. A bird comes in through the chimney like Santa Claus. It looks you in the eye and tells you a story.
There were a boy and a girl. Young. They played with each other every day. And they grew up. They grew closer. Clumsy school romances. Friends, lovers. Older still. They make love. Two Kindred souls in the world. Two against the world.
But somewhere, something changed.
You suddenly notice a cut on the hand. A single drop of blood onto the drawing of your house. The bird starts bleeding from the eyes.
Some evil entered. And suddenly, there was something more important than the other to the boy and the girl. There was something more important than their love for each other.
Bone begins to poke from the hand's fingers. Blood pooling on the paper
They fought. Yell, scream, throw shit at each other. Cry, make up, and every day the same fucking pencil shading sun rises, and the eraser stroke moon sets.
Ants begin crawling out of the hand, swarming on the hands, a dark moving mass.
And one day the fighting stops. But not because the evil was gone. But because the girl and the boy were resigned to the fact. They bought a nice house in the suburbs, close to the public school for when they had kids. Bought a nice little minivan. Last weekend, they bought a couple fucking plastic tubs of the identical fucking conformist flowers from the hardware store when they were on sale.
And you look down, and they're your hands. Skin sagging, liver spots. You grab a mirror and look in. Skeletal face and dead eyes look back at you with no emotion. Blood has smeared the drawing of your house, and you look down at it. A picture of a graveyard.
And you realize it never was a nice house, but rather a grave the whole times. A place for you to forget about your dreams. A place to go and slowly die, working your 9 to 5. A place to go and slowly eat processed food until because you become fat and soft. A place to blow your brains out with the pistol you bought last week from the store, after you kill your miserable family and their dreams along with yourselves.
Just like everybody else.
And you sit in a moment of silence for your lost dreams, your lost love, your lost potential, your lost intelligence, your lost strength, your lost leadership, your lost job, your lost life, your lost soul. A moment of silence.
And a single gunshot rings across the dark void, a lucid sound in the darkness. And you finally understand.
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