Tuesday, 22 June 2010

What can all of this mean?

"We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. "

When I wake up in the morning and those fleeting moments where dreams and reality segue have dissolved, I wonder what the day will mean. Not what it will bring, mind. But what will what it brings mean.

My life could hardly be called routine or in fact, monotonous. I travel a fair bit, do different things, meet an incredible variety of people in very short spans of time and I have a mental dog. Still I have to wonder where it's all leading to. My mother thinks I spend way too much time obsessing, dissecting and generally making a kachumbar of every situation "...like that stupid woman Elizabeth Gilby..something." But then she's also a lady who believes there isn't a single case of the blues a good spot of house cleaning or a fat little financial crisis won't remedy.

But I like my experiences to be immersive. And that can't happen until I fully understand them, understand why they are and why they must be. It's like with words: I like to understand what they mean, how they're pronounced, the contexts they can be contortioned to; then only will I press them to my tongue. Sometimes I like to think, quite narcissistically, that I can derive more meaning from a single word that the next person because of how much I try.

It is this need for some greater consciousness of things, some higher understanding, a certain feeling of being-in-the-know that has me lost completely. Life has become a desperate experiment. Hold this against my inherent recklessness and masochism and I'll do anything to make them wrong.

Those who firmly believe there is no higher truth or profundity or anything. Whatever is, is whatever it is. No more, no less. All primary-coloured experiences. Work yourself to the bone for what you never really needed, just always assumed you wanted. Eat for sadness, eat for guilt, eat for love, eat for jealousy. Fuck for duty, fuck for thrills, fuck for boredom. Tell dick jokes and reduce everything to a punchline. Die for nothing at all.

Is that it?


Anonymous said...

You make complete sense to me. And you make me want to be like you. Sometimes I am taken aback by how much I am feeling what you write. Is there any purpose to it all? But then I put it off and make another dick joke. Because thinking about such things scares me.

Kavita said...

We wear plastic masks because we're terrified that the world can see us crumbling. We sweep our broken dreams under the carpet and laugh about it. But you know, really deep down, you're howling with the pain of their loss.