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| <<<>>> |
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Identity |
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| Created by Decius at
| [+ favourites]
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Titled after the fact – something I don’t usually do, but I’ve been up for about 20 hours and I’m feeling risky.
The statement above – it sounds flimsy. It sounds tacky and slightly witty, but there’s no wit in it. It’s what coffee drinking tards call wit. Yuppies that like to surround themselves by smiling faces, who are also yuppies that like to surround themselves with smiling faces. People who go wine tasting. People who have a glass of wine alone at home and burn candles.
Is it because I don’t understand the silent bliss of such a moment?
No. It’s because it’s bullshit. That you’d never do it alone without telling someone about it, or at least feeling good about the fact that you’ve now fulfilled the cliché of a serious thoughtful yuppie. That you were so damn serious, that you had to drink some wine (the wine you got at the wine tasting fair) and really enjoyed it.
Reality: Either you do something with your life and suffer the pain of currently being a shallow empty case, or you escape it with a bottle of hard liquor that is meant to numb all your senses – the wine isn’t used to make you drunk… it’s just enough to fool you into thinking you’re achieving something by being that picture of a serious classy yuppie.
But I digress. What is the point of this? Sometimes people want to get things off their chest but the things I get off my chest are monumental – phenomenal – soulful. They paint a picture of some ideology that always falls back to the path of enlightenment – that when we chase the image we want others to see of us, based on what we see of those we respect, we repress all that is purposeful in our existence, never to again be savored.
I am a victim of this mentality – I was born into it. I was raised by it. And day by day, there is a push against my peace of mind telling me to rid myself of it. That I stare at people and things, and see them as they wish to be seen but not actually are. I satisfy their exact purpose in drinking wine, because, it works on me. That façade of a serious yuppie – despite the crystal clear logic that it is all bullshit, I subscribe, despite my cries.
And so there is a battle, and it seems never to end for I battle this, and then I battle that, and I keep battling all those individual little facades that have thoroughly confused my view of all the people in the world that lie to themselves about who they are. And this is everyone in the world but me.
Do I live the lie? Yes I do. And I feel obliged to defend my position because I feel that YOU will judge me as egocentric and delusional. But if I state what I did above, and convince myself that it is true without question, then you too will believe my façade, like I believe yours. And the most powerful person in this day and age is the one that doubts themselves less despite all the logical reasons to do so. So you wait for me to defend myself… you are eager for it. Or maybe you fear it, on the opposite end. Maybe you want me to be confident in an unquestionable way so that you can trust me… so that you can look up to someone for those answers.
I live the lie, while I need to live the lie, but I do not accept the lie. I never accept the lie. I know it is a lie. When I get a haircut, and I dress the dress, and I look in the mirror, I see what they want me to be, but I do not see me. I see a handsome man who should be cocky and funny, but I do not see me.
Identity. Maybe I will label this something clever relating to identity. It seems to have narrowed into that line of thought, and so my sub-conscious mind must be aware that I am having a war with my own identity. That they want me to be that man, to believe that that man is the man I should be. That I should feel good being that man. But I do not feel good being that man, so I am not that man – but then I am something else altogether. And this person I am, is a person worth nothing – a loathed entity with no worth or achievement. Because I am not that man.
And I am aware of their projection and I am aware of my desire. And I am aware of the battle in my mind – that I wish to love what I am and reject their desire. But the war has gone on so long that now I cannot hear it or feel it – it is just there… a weight. That manifests itself in untitled articles.
You already know what I titled this. I don’t, as I write this. But you will read this with full knowledge of what I concluded I should title it. You will receive these words in a manner that I never will – an alternate reality where these words, as I write them now will never, ever exist in the same form because they are all absolutely unequivocally based on one important unknown factor – the title of this article. By the time you read this, that factor will have permanently been discovered, and like all knowledge, it can never ever be un-discovered. So this is exciting for me – perhaps not so much for you. This may be redundant speech obsessing over a fact that is boring and clear to you – yet it is a mystery to me, and the fact that it is a mystery to me, and only me, and my mystery to discover makes me want to talk about it.
You see, I am a special person with a special mind. You can run through these articles if you have the will and desire but you won’t and don’t, so you won’t discover my genius. I’ve the path to enlightenment in my mind, you see. And these are all breadcrumbs as I find my way back to the source.
The source was given to me at birth, I presume. Some mixture of chemicals, timing, and perhaps a soul of some sort (although I haven’t figured that all completely out yet). But then I was twisted and turned and filled with dishonesty – so then came the time when I discovered that I was lied to, and that my essence was hidden, and so I turned around and ran backwards.
And I’ve been running ever since. All this knowledge, this maturity and confidence and intelligence and wit – it’s a combination of two things: My essence, and my ability to catch lies as they are thrown to me. At birth all I had was my essence, and as I run back I learn all there is to learn about the manipulative ways of this world.
Like the yuppie and her wine.
I imagine entering a condominium with hardwood floors, a white ipod on a white ipod speaker set – she walks up to it and gently twirls her fingers choosing a playlist and presses play. Her auburn hair and knee length skirt shake as she turns and walks into her bedroom. I look at her shiny kitchen and see clean wine glasses, shot glasses, and a small assortment of alcohol. It smells sterile, the room fills with the music of the Shins or some other “emo” band.
I want to fuck her because I believe she is confident – has it all going on. Will accept my dick, and use her whole body and mind to bless me with her adoration. That she will look at me and come, biting her thumb, for my essence triggered this reaction in her – that I owned something so confident and beautiful and desirable, with my dick.
But I’m still standing there. And I think – this condo must cost a lot of money. And she doesn’t make enough money to throw away on a condo like this. Why does she spend all her money on a condo like this?
And there it goes. But my sub-conscious, like crack-whore, grapples to explain it in a way that will still keep her confident, beautiful and desirable. And it hurts, my friend.
Fuck that. I jump over to the ipod. Those fucking proprietary ipod speakers are pieces of shit that are at least three times as expensive as they should be. Why did she buy those? Why are they and the ipod one of the first things you see when you walk in? Why does she have a fucking shot glass in plain view? For easy access on those long and hard days? Or to show us all that she’s a ‘party girl!’?
And then I go for the big one – I want to find them. You don’t know what it is I am looking for, but it’s great. So I go into her bathroom and shut the door. I look. I look. I look. I can’t find it. So I get out of the bathroom. I go into her bedroom. I look around casually but I can’t find it. I bend my knees and scratch my foot to look under the bed, and there they are. But, what kind? Pads or tampons?
A girl that spends all her money on rent and alcohol, expensive glasses and cosmetic electronics, that puts shot glasses in plain view but shamefully hides her tampons (which represent her period, which represents her ability to have children – the most beautiful, necessary and integral function women can possibly possess – a symbol of something that should be adored), and further, uses tampons. Do you know why women use tampons? To hide them. You stick them in. Pads go on the outside, but then it is slightly visible and you can’t wear skin tight outfits. But tampons are dangerous! You can get toxic shock syndrome and actually die from them.
This girl, that is ashamed of her ability to have children, that spends all her time earning money to spend on her condo, who wants to promote her alcohol and partying abilities, who risks death to be more attractive… is far too busy loathing herself to ever adore someone like me. |
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| Created by Decius at
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