Whatever we are, however you qualify
yourself or your personality, however you qualify your intrinsic
human rights or moral obligations, whatever goals you establish and
evils you denote, even your very purpose isn’t about “you.”
You are a slave to your mind. You are
the circumstantial electrical firings of the synapses in your brain.
Your idiosyncrasies aren’t a deliberate attempt to be unique; they
are triggered, unlocked, and practically inevitable given enough time
and enough subjects. Your will power will never outmatch your base
animal.
And what an animal that is.
“Real” to me is any intrinsically
true statement. So many people claim to be real because, to them, the
truth of their feelings or view cannot be any more present. I try to
create what is real. To put it another way, as much as I can talk and
seemingly get random or very hard to understand, everyone can
identify a coffee shop….if only eventually. Right now I’m
stagnant. I see the end of the road of whatever business I open. My
mind is living in the reality I want to create now, and it’s
driving me a tad insane.
I don’t really see the point in
waiting. Why wait for permission? Why get held up on someone’s
weaker stance or lacking morality? Don’t put it to a vote, fucking
act. Apparently this isn’t a popular opinion until shit goes
horribly wrong. We’re happy to go along like nothing has changed
until we recognize signals from out base animal. We’re hurt, we’re
hungry, and we’re tired or bored. This is all I see Occupy whatever
as. A ton of basically idiots finally getting too many signals from
their environment currently designed to endanger their lives.
But I don’t really want to talk about
Occupy. I feel like I’m working to make myself tired. Build build
build so I can look back and notice all the shit it’s built upon
only to grow so tired constantly turning it over in my head for any
conceivable way it could’ve gone and not been marred by shit. But
it will never happen. I’ll always have to opt for optimism and put
up with time wasting, life draining, undignified and amoral
happenstance. I don’t know how to feel about this. I barely think I
want to continue thinking about it. As if I had a choice.
I’ll never know what you think; I’ll
only see how you act. Nothing I’m doing makes sense to me in the
context of you; it only makes sense to me with you embedded in my
context. So then from where am I coming? I want to enable the ideas?
The ideas are fleeting, assumed, fundamentally prone to failure and
scarily easily forgotten. What else do you have but them, though?
What if your ideas are rooted in something you can’t even define
like abstract notions about happiness or comfort or objectivity and
“being on the level?” Do you just chug along until enough time
has gone by that you forgot what upset you a few months earlier?
Good luck talking to people about it.
You might get the splendid opportunity to hear what they always tell
you. Good luck writing about it. You might get the special treat of
going in circles or retyping ninety percent of a previous post. All
you feel like doing is acting. You want to engage and make things
sway. You want to make real what is previously unknown or utterly
foreign. You want control. Why? Is the idea of not having it that
terrifying? Is complacency a deep root of evil? You assume so for
now.
Just be worth it.
