Wednesday, February 21, 2007
i got my stitches stitched, got my fixes fixed
in my aching head i got my kisses slipped.
i got your love letters, corrected the grammar and sent them back
its true - romance is dead. i shot it in the chest, then in the head
im every cliche but i simply do it best.
yes, i am different now. what have i traded in to be who i am? do i want to be-- like shrek-- an onion? peel off my skins, one by one, and all you're left with is a smelly unsightly mess and tears all round. i admit that i don't love who i am. but i never have, and i never will-- it's just how i'm made-- and there are more important things to care about. do what i can, in the hours i have given to me, and somehow i'll shuffle my Whole Sort of General Mish-Mash of personalities into something resembling normality. it irks me that i am the consummate soulless imitator: perfectly capable of writing about anything, with nothing of substance to actually say.
being slightly sociopathic, i base my social behaviour on empirical observations of the (mainly selfish) motivations of human beings, and how they subsequently translate into human interaction. am i missing out on something? is it wrong or pathological (god help me, i'm turning into a medical textbook) to pattern my interaction with the world not on my general urges (if i said even 20% of what randomly pops into my head people would perpetually either be very angry, or very puzzled. i have a very strange/obscure/macabre sense of black humour.) but on some circumscribed patterns of behaviour? practically speaking, one can treat anybody as a bundle of prejudices and neuroses, and interact with them accordingly in a fairly-successful manner. so this begs the question: are any of us any more than just a collection of cliches, neuroses, stereotypes, and assumptions? or am i just some soulless sociopath, locked out of the general undercurrents of humanity that course between and under every human being? i'm starting to think it's a mixture of the two (multifactorial disease. hoho.) because the alternatives are too upsetting to consider.
which is better? being "true to yourself", (whatever that oft-quoted but seldom-thought-through bromide means) or being happy? listen to enough pop, punk, or rap, and sooner or later you'll be told not to buy in, or sell out. whatever. being eminently-practical, i say why not? as long as you remember the cardinal rule of playing the stock market: buy low sell high. aren't we all just blue chips anyway?
who the hell decides or defines who "you" are anyway? pretend you're something long enough, and you usually become it. stare into the abyss too long, the abyss starts looking right back at you. yeah yeah all that philosophical bullshit. anyway, i don't know the answer-- i don't think i ever will.
okay whatever. self-reflective jag out of my system-- normal service has resumed, and i can now go about my shallow, soulless life with no twinges of regret, or (shock! horror!) independent thought. hurrah. back to cofm i guess
+ fictions&fires
9:02 AM
----
plangere, latin: to strike, or to lament.
in the depth of winter i finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
--albert camus
--
to be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best night and day to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight and never stop fighting.
-- ee cummings
--
--