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