Monday, April 14, 2008
I have stood up for myself at nearly every occasion in which my once good name was in danger of being dragged through the mud of ignominy. I have stood up for my friends, without hesitation, in every instance in which they've been besmirched (or threatened to be), even when they, in all honesty, sometimes completely deserved it (and then some). I have defended my actions, my friends, my friends' actions, my art and my opinions ruthlessly and without a minute's delay any time it is called upon me to do so. And what have I got to show for it? Peace of mind? Hardly. I can't even begin to describe my mind and its neuroses and still expect to hold your attention. At least not right now. Have I accrued a collection of friends worth having and worth keeping around, with whom I have mutual trust and similar, if not identical, ideals and from whom I can expect the same? Barely. I've lost so-called best friends to matters so trivial that I promise you I cannot even remember what caused the initial fight in the first place and I've abandoned so-called best friends over issues so banal and pointless that I'm positive I started them and acted offended simply because I was bored with the mental climate my mind was inhabiting at the time. And I think it's all too convenient to blame it on simple stubbornness for I've borne the cross of the pride-swallower, the apologizer, a million times over. I've held back from doing things that I thought to be wrong and unjust and selfish and unethical only to see everyone else indulge and enjoy and at the end of the day what difference was made? Simply put, they had fun and I remained bitter, but my integrity (whatever that words means anymore) remained intact. Though I, myself, have also indulged. Make no mistake of that. Having, at one point, experimentally taken a capitalist, alpha male view on the world, I went out and "got mine." And what happened? At the end of the day I felt cheapened and none the better for it and those left in my wake were scarred and fucked (emotionally, that is) for at least a good time to come. And it isn't without (even the slightest bit of arrogance) that I confess these things to you. And what's the point of confessing any of this anyway? Will it gain me any sort of popularity? No, of course not. Will I be ridiculed? Absolutely. Am I already? I'm nearly certain. I've been told by people, by friends, that I'm a "monster" and a "joke of a person." My very best friends (and I use that term extremely loosely because I haven't had a best friend since I've been old enough to know really what capacity I possess to do the things I do) tolerate me at best. I have done so much good for so many people and yet it's my regrets and mistakes and acts of selfishness that stand tallest, overshadowing and depriving everything of the light it needs to flourish and, in the long run, survive. I am an amalgamation of two people whom should've never even met, let alone spawned a son. I am self-aware and within this self-awareness accumulates my evil. I am fully aware of what I'm capable of. For instance, I know that I cannot jump onto a seven story building, but there are other, still equally as remarkable in their own rights, feats I am capable of doing. I am more intelligent than most people. I'll say that again; I am more intelligent than most people. Granted (and don't mistake this for an apology to you, reader), I'm still clumsy with my words and have yet to truly refine my craft, but the thoughts I have in my mind, I'm certain are not the thoughts of an average person. They are not the thoughts of a person who willingly, but begrudgingly, gets up every morning and goes to work and has a family and retires and moves to Florida and dies. They are not thoughts of submission, but, unfortunately, they are the thoughts of a powerless iconoclast or perhaps of a terrified-of-failing iconoclast or perhaps an for-all-too-long-unappreciated iconoclast. They are, indeed, thoughts of autonomy, but at the same time they are the thoughts of a very intelligent, fully conscious, extremely self-aware, idled-minded, privileged young adult male. Perhaps this is a good indication that I'm losing my mind, perhaps I'm reading too much F.D. or perhaps I'm exactly right and I'm completely alone in this world. Destined to die miserable and alone. Could there be a more fitting end, anyway? I don't think so. And how am I truly to know what I really, actually want? And furthermore, how am I to know that I what I want is what I need or what I want is what's actually good for me? I'd like to have a different girl every night. I'd like to be able to kill people with just my thoughts. I'd like to find a girl who makes me forget about every girl in the world. I'd like to die, sometimes. How am I to know any of this? At this point I'm rambling, so I'll leave it up to you, reader, to maybe offer some insight that I probably hold in very high regard anyway. If you're really arrogant enough (as arrogant as me) to believe that you can tell me something of real consequence, of real value, then by all means . . . offer me some insight, but beware . . . I understand the human condition better than most and I have no idea why anything is the way it is and every single conscious thought just leads me to a puzzle and then the resolve of that puzzle is five more puzzles and infinite ensues. I dare you to try to make any sense of this or to even begin to comprehend it.