Jesus you know it ain't easy.
That's the name of one of my favorite pieces of artwork. Of all time. It's the crucifix -- but with a life size jesus made entirely out of cigarettes. Hanging on a MONSTROUS wall.
You know. It ain't easy. A good piece of art or something else created can make us feel so much, yet, we degrade these things in our culture. What's it point, we ask. Of what use is it. What can IT do FOR me.
Well what the fuck can you do for it?
Stop asking what everything and everyone can do for you, and open up yourself a little to the world.
Never have I ever been more aware that I am a spec of nothing, and I know so very little compared to the human experiences floating around inside of others. And, I wish it were a cliche, but when Plato said "All I know is that I know nothing," it continues to be the most true thing I've ever come across.
And, to be real, people who think they know it all are some of the dumbest mother fuckers I ever did meet.
I cannot understand the closed off side of humanity. The one where there's one right way to do things. The one where this is bad, and this is good, and everything in between is just a daily decision you're supposed to already know the answer to.
I don't want any of the answers. It's not proper or neat or organized. The truth is reckless and intermittent and, yes, evolving.
Good or bad. Man, fuck it. From every single person. Every single exchange. Every single day. I learn something about myself or something about humanity, or about my surroundings.
I refuse to believe any one person doesn't at least deserve a chance. So many people I know miss out because they're too busy either being too wrapped up in their own head or too wrapped up in what the people around them are doing.
I'll tell you "possibilities are my religion" and maybe you'll think it's some clever bullshit that sounds real nice, but let me elaborate. Religion, a belief system. Possibilities, the only real way to be alive.
When we lose the chance that today could be the best or, perhaps, the worst day, we lose the life in us. We lose ourselves to predictability and pattern. Now, as many of you may know, I am almost addicted to control or I fuckin' lose it, but without allowing ourselves the possibility to do/say/believe/take/breathe/be anything -- really, what's the point?
To get married, have a job, do the same thing every day? Take pride in our 3-car garage and our new flooring and our house we just finished building for way more than we can pay off.
The pride is learned. And that status is excepted whole-heartedly. We're finally somewhere stable. Aren't we? Now, that feeling sounds pretty fucking magical but then what? A plateau? I'll tell you the truth. I don't know which one terrifies me more getting to the plateau of comfortability and the happy medium or never getting there.
Or, maybe it's the fact that some of us just can't defeat our own psyche enough to ever truly get to that point where we know it's real enough to be with someone else we can trust ourselves to trust ourselves with.
We're insecure little motherfuckers, ya know it?
Even when we're so sure, we're not. And forever? Yeah, I think I felt that yesterday after I drank some wine and took an oxycodiene. It just reads as inconceivable to be with someone forever as we are continually growing, changing, becoming wiser and truer.
If you've ever taken the time to browse through a hotel bible after a night of hasty pleasures, you'll find a part that reads "Youth is vanity." And in years, our vanity decays as we realize we're consistently born. Into new situations, into new lives, into fearsome crevices of ignorance and uncharted knowledge. So we float on the surface. Or we dive head-first.
And it's so much easier, undoubtedly simpler and so very careless to be there, on the surface, looking under, not really seeing a lucid vision or perspective, but never the less, obtaining and holding a judgement. And that judgement is easy to float on and to carry us to where ever.
It's easier not to understand why. It's easier to float of above than risk drowning.
But are you sick like me? Do you drown in the air air/err of judgement where it's without difficulty to breath but even harder to live going along sucking in everyone else's purity and curiosity and bewilderment and wanderlust?
Because you put the chains on yourself and you wear them like shiny metals of honor -- like you have nothing and something to prove just to be kept.
But no one really wants you.
Because no one can get past.
And you've closed off the glorious grey areas --the nuances fucking sparkle in mute-- for the black and white pleasure of false security and a sense of wholeness.
So when you love, it's merely a like. And when you hate, it's just a heightened sense of displeased. And when you feel, it's disconnected and affected by the superficial culture that institutes in you a need for more. Always this more, never this enough. And when YOU FEEL -- it never really comes, does it? Because when you FEEL, you can barely be honest with yourself anymore. And the water gets shallower and shallower, until there's no depth left at all. And we breath these dishonest exhales into our bodies like it's pure oxygen, when it's used and discarded and most of all, the product of another person's misgivings.
