Monday, June 10, 2013

Best, alone, perfect


Wanting to be the best, man. Wanting to be the best is stupid. Certainly perfect is no good aspiration. What an aimless endeavor. If I'm a fat fuck I can say it's in my genetics. You know what genetics are the real life metaphor for? Fate. We will all die, so everyone alive is a fatalist. We admit our obsession with flaws and sorrows and deaths by participating in life. It's standard and true. It's as routine as fast food. Like Cat Power I've wanted to be the greatest. I've wanted to make lesbians straight. Fate's what makes this worthwhile, we need a crack in the vase. We need something that grates. We need the taste of carbonated bubbles rubbing down our throat. We need the common cold. We need a choice or two to set the illusion of our sentience. It's real, the world's material, and a new obsession will really take the edge off. Find your place. It's genetics, man. I wanted to be the best. Yet even Daniel Day-Lewis couldn't play the lead role in an Alanis Morrissette biopic. The 5'1" man can never be 5'2". This isn't a dismissal of will, but an acceptance of an endless grind and the unintentionally bad movie of life.


I like to be alone. It can't be a coincidence that the color we associate with isolation is the same color as the matter we most associate with the entire universe. The black, dead, cold outerspace, where everything slowly floats and breath is not possible. Drape me isolation like a Snuggie™. I like to be alone because that's where I'm spot on. That's where I'm the boss, and the boss is king, and the king is always calm. Calm is zen is nirvana. When I'm alone I'm perfect and never wrong. You can't fuck with me, I'm opinionated to a crowd of no one. My logic is infallible. I don't need a strawman, and there's never the tension of being bad entertainment. Alone, I'm good, I'm gold. There's a sea in my mind my psyche drowns in called Eloquence, and it's an endless stream and there are no bends. Well, there are bends but all of them I meant. Loneliness to prisoners is a prison worse than prison and they're right. When they get put in the hole, they're alone, and they go insane. Yet then your imagination is endless, untethered and capable of anything. You can't convince me that's not free. I like to be alone, the passive victim of society's influence, taking in a bunch of dead tangible medium. Cellphones, recorded music, smoke, all on rubber wheels riding down the road. They pet you and stroke you, kissing your ego to sleep. You're the ideal when no one else is accounted for. Pat yourself on the back, you're free and free of stress, reality, and criticism. You never fuck nothing up when you're alone. You don't put your fist through a wall and desire is almost sweet as result. That said, this one was pretty good.


Everyone reminds you perfection can't be attained. There's irony in life in that one tiny crack is the sole motivation for the rest of the chain. Everyone's drawn to it like a train, a bunch of them, getting their white blood cell like behavior on and pulling out powerdrills and hammers. Perfection is one simple problem. The entire living population above 12 or 'retarded' strive to suggest the matter in which to go about the fix. Everyone's got their own insight, until it's a mess. Until it's a cookie under stress. My point's pretty simple, with perfection comes no satisfaction. Sadness is an illusion, and happiness. So in this theory we're roleplayers and we need a flaw, because it's perfect. Because only with a flaw can we best roleplay and enjoy that subtle feeling of imagining what perfection is actually like. Not witnessing the actual reality, but reveling in the ideas of that Golden Standard and how close we can get to it. When a song's so loving, or a movie character's so endearing, that's gold. When someone does the right thing, it's so rare. It's so brave to walk that fine line of what you feel versus the highest standard, but when you hit that high note, you're immersed, I'm sure, in the root of the illusion of beauty. You can say, so that's what it would feel like to be perfect.

No comments:

Post a Comment