Hypocrites in Sunglasses; Sardines in Mustard

I don’t want to be any better than you. But the way you’re looking at the ground has got me reconsidering the source of such thoughtlessness. What worse, than to live the life of a celebrated artist; a madman among madmen, known. Known, and confirmed to the hatred and jealousy of others. I would rather live my life, stewing in a silence which does not understand, than brave the cold comparison of a world of stale masculinity and loaded guns. Yet my fears keep me blind, like a sheet of wood placed between my eyes hindering not the passage of light but the communication between ones self and self’s oneness. And fear, lack of communication, is worse than being hated.

Now, I’ve been accused, mostly by myself, of a gross morbidity that goes as follows; put down your language and have some fucking fun dude. And I cannot deny the need, the translogical fitting, which saturates this request like a surface, a boundary, which paints in negative the truth of my own denial. There is significance here. Hands grasping hands, a connection, a chain.

This world, as sick as it may seem, is the source of both love and hatred, chaos and patterns. To deny the denominator is to suffer wholely. These aint my words. But they do trace my reality, my current place of being and all it entails. I am sad. I am so happy. I am the man, and the corpse, dead and living. Been thinking a lot lately about the worth of comparison itself, and the fact that we spend so much anger, so much libido, on the comparison of one to other when we miss the comparison of oneself to that which one was. I guess it’s all part of the plan. But sooner or later we must grow up and make the choice, either to die in the past or to live in the now.

 

 

[insert logic]

 

I’ve had to break myself into tiny little pieces to fit through the small hole cut in the side of the road; truth within choice. Years later, the hurt subsides. A few more pass, and the sun begins not to sting but to warm. Nietzsche said it too; to be ones own surgeon is the fatest of fates. I can’t apologize for my dark soul, for in pain we may find a motivation which comes not to the happy and content. So fuck your opinion, and fuck your hatred. Don’t you dare say fuck MY hatred. This is my life, sunglasses or not.

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