Life is a war in which we fight to the death, glance back from our hospital beds and applaud whoever has accomplished the most. Like a photograph, it flashes, we pause, then look back at the still-frame in mocking agony of what used to be. Why is success placed before living? Why view life as an opportunity to become something rather than an opportunity to experience? Yet here we are, stuck in relationships we want out of, working jobs we want to escape and bound by the assumption that risk is the potential invitation of failure. It's easy, I guess. People tell me far too often that they wish they could do things when, in reality, if they simply did them their desires would come to fruition. Is it fear or just the love of simplicity? Things are easiest when they're familiar. People do things all the time because coping with consistency is easier than the discomfort of change...even if change is the remedy to their affliction. I understand responsibility and respect success, but to place it before enjoying life seems sinfully flawed. It's easy to talk of aspirations from a recliner - but another thing entirely to bleed-out, striving to obtain those aspirations and use the recliner to tell the story of your success some day in the future. It bothers me. Sure there are subtle, underlying frustrations streaming through this entire dissertation; but regardless, the point stands true. Whatever. I'm tired of it. What purpose does a rant serve besides self-gratification anyway? Rants are like humanity in winter. We start warm and conversational, sitting by a fire, maybe. It's safe here. The walls protect us from the elements of the caloused world outside. Conversation changes and, somehow, the topic deepens. Someone gets upset. Their stiffened ego was injured. Voices rise and we step outside into the cold. Grumbling a bit we might take a few steps. The stairs are slippery. We're cautious. Eventually, we find the freezing obnoxiousness of the whole situation taking it's tole and we, who once stood upright and fought for our God-given opinions, now look tired and old; hunched over, arms clenched tightly about ourselves like defenseless children. It's too cold to argue. Nothing really matters anyway. The harsh stinging of everything combined becomes too much to bear and we forget whatever it was that started this whole thing in the first place. We cough a little. It's freezing. We make our way back through the door and rush to the warming arms of the welcoming fire. The others soon follow and we all laugh at the silliness of the whole situation. Soon our cheeks are reddened by the glow and all is forgotten. It's over now; but a while will pass and the whole thing will repeat itself. Pointless. What is the point? There is no point. It's all a bunch of pointless pointlessness. Sometimes the pointlessness seems more convincing than others. That's just good salesmanship; but it remains pointless nonetheless. It's like a big vat where everyone tosses in their opinions, we sort them out one by one until we all agree, but by the time we've reached where we started the opinions have all changed and the whole thing starts over. Pointlessness. What is pointlessness anyway? Why don't we just call it trainwreck? Trainwreck. The whole pointless thing is a stupid trainwreck and nothing makes sense anymore. Who's writing this whole thing, anyway? Take the pieces, one at a time. Inspect them. Twist them. Mold them. Force them into little shapes and make them fit back together until you find the original thought behind the whole stupid thing. I bet your thoughts on the original thought are different than you originally thought they were. It's cruel, isn't it. No one knows anything yet we all know everything. A strange paradox of the wisdom of fools. A viscous labyrinth of time. We work to support our reproductions, reproduce to create more hands to work and work at reproduction like it's last good thing the good Lord left behind...
What does any of this matter...they're just words anyway. I could say, "Panda bear, fruit dance, bubble gum, rainbows" with any sense of conviction and some rambling idiot would call me genius. It's a travesty. A perverse, all forsaken travesty...
In the end,I'll leave it all alone...
“When did your childhood end? How badly did you get hurt, when you did, when you were this little wee little hurtable thing, nothing but big eyes, a heart, a few hundred words? Isn’t it wonderful how we never recover? Injuries and wounds, ladies and gents. Slights and abuses, oh, what a paradise. Living in fear, suiting the hurt to our need. What a happy life. What a good game. Who can stand the most, the most life, and still smile, still grin into the coming night and say more, more, encore, encore, you fates, just give me more, more, more of the bloody bloody same.” - Will Eno
No comments:
Post a Comment