2015-02-09

untitled #20 (acid)

I'm not sure of what it is, that feeling that pushes me towards lives I've never lived, distant places and illusionarily perfected people. I live those lives more vividly than any real experience could ever make me feel. The shabby canvas of existence must be filled with shapes, colours, words and scents from a phantasmagoric world that one Jean Baudrillard* would scornfully eye, and say "I told you, the images are all you have left." And I'd shrug the guilt away, scripting yet another conversation that never took place. I'd think of you, and you, and be a teenager again, and I'd be up to be a better me. A better me with you, or you. Excitement, touches of shoulders and cheeks, immersion. No time wasted, no shallowness, no despair- just bright lights, lit windows, ads and smog sunsets. Life. I do wonder if this is how schizophrenia begins, but I do wonder, too, if schizophrenia is not the most desirable state of mind. One mind becomes a lot. Then a lot become none. I was never great in mathematics. I wonder where you are, and you. And they. And me. Where am I? Am I on that canvas, or is that ashen face that stares ahead blankly me? Or am I already - We? Turns out, language does not tell a king from a madmen. Maybe the majesty of self-made schizophrenia is that what pushes me towards lives I've never lived, distant places and illusionarily perfected people. Monsieur Baudrillard, please tell me: If the Real is lost, how is it that I am not yet allowed to loose myself, too? Dissolve in palm trees, streets, clouds and arms that We painted, paint and will continue painting on bleak canvas.

*Jean Baudrillard (1929-2007), postmodern french philosopher.

2 comments:

  1. I could be cutesy and call it wanderlust and wishes, but it’s not that shallow. Or cute. It’s real if you let it be, or even if you don’t, because whatever-it-is has a way of grabbing your collar and dragging you back to shove your head into what is the—whimsical? No—rational world of what is disputably _not_. And with your head held under the cold—yet alluring—wash of illusions, there’s no choice but to breathe, breathe it in and maybe choke but you’re submerged and there’s no other choice. And you’re locked in it, but it’s locked in your head, even even when you must step into reality, it’s still there. You’ve been soaked in it, and strangely… that’s okay.
    But it turns real life into a stinging, echo-ey perpetual slap-in-the-face that must be borne if we care to survive until the next daydream, because _that_ is what’s beautiful, the things in our heads. The grime and dinginess of reality can’t even brush it, so long as we keep in secure, in our minds. It’s the only safe place to be, so run free, be 3 different people if you so wish, dream whatever you want and put in on paper if you like, but don’t let them hurt you; don’t ever let what they call “real” damage that imagination; because it’s just exactly that which keeps their reality bearable. There’s nothing wrong with wishing to being out of it, so—paint away. The world needs that from you.

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