As I have gotten older, I have become content with the fact that I actually dont like people. It used to bother me that I lacked any special, enamoring charisma with the human race, that normal situations could become increasingly awkward solely due to my participation, or that I am, for all intensive purposes, grossly and obscenely normal to a very American extent. I dont have a dark, secret past. Im not guilty or ashamed or trendy or vegan or molested or decadent or kind or poor or rich or sexy or beautiful or hideous or blameworthy or innocent or nave or clever or slow or sophisticated or even jaded.
If I so given a color, I would be industrial grey, no ones favorite, everywhere, proletariat, the color everyone walks on without notice, boring. A wandering crazy lady, wearing aged hippie garb and carrying a parrot in a cage, followed me down the street for three blocks the last time I was in Manhattan. After a while, while standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, she told me that I had a blood red aura, an aura of power as if in casual conversation about the weather. She grabbed my hand and pulled it towards her chest, sighed, and walked away. Thats such a seductive thing to hear. Even if it takes a crazy person to tell us, we all want to hear that we are not common, that we have some inner, unseen power that sets us apart (even if only seen by aged hippies carrying parrots), that we are all secretly magenta, blood red, or chartreuse. This is not to say that Im okay with being dull, grey, but that its easy, fun, to believe otherwise for brief seconds of individuality. However, everyones soul is grey and that is why we search for them in the wrong places.
After all, there is no mystery in the unadulterated hatred of approximately 93.99% of the human race as it is commonplace, if excessively honest. (This said, I probably dont like you and I really dont care what you have to say all in all a very liberating experience.)
Charles Bukowski says...
the way things are
first they try to break you with grinding
poverty
then they try to break you with empty
fame.
if you will not be broken
by either
then there are natural methods
such as the usual diseases
followed by an unwelcome
death.
But most of us are broken long before
that
as its meant to
be
by earthquake
flood
famine
rage
suicide
despair
or simply
by seriously
burning your nose
while lighting a
cigarette.
Word, Charles, word.
If I so given a color, I would be industrial grey, no ones favorite, everywhere, proletariat, the color everyone walks on without notice, boring. A wandering crazy lady, wearing aged hippie garb and carrying a parrot in a cage, followed me down the street for three blocks the last time I was in Manhattan. After a while, while standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, she told me that I had a blood red aura, an aura of power as if in casual conversation about the weather. She grabbed my hand and pulled it towards her chest, sighed, and walked away. Thats such a seductive thing to hear. Even if it takes a crazy person to tell us, we all want to hear that we are not common, that we have some inner, unseen power that sets us apart (even if only seen by aged hippies carrying parrots), that we are all secretly magenta, blood red, or chartreuse. This is not to say that Im okay with being dull, grey, but that its easy, fun, to believe otherwise for brief seconds of individuality. However, everyones soul is grey and that is why we search for them in the wrong places.
After all, there is no mystery in the unadulterated hatred of approximately 93.99% of the human race as it is commonplace, if excessively honest. (This said, I probably dont like you and I really dont care what you have to say all in all a very liberating experience.)
Charles Bukowski says...
the way things are
first they try to break you with grinding
poverty
then they try to break you with empty
fame.
if you will not be broken
by either
then there are natural methods
such as the usual diseases
followed by an unwelcome
death.
But most of us are broken long before
that
as its meant to
be
by earthquake
flood
famine
rage
suicide
despair
or simply
by seriously
burning your nose
while lighting a
cigarette.
Word, Charles, word.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
We're all worthless and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I think being surprised you're run-of-the-mill implies you expected the opposite. Expecting to be anything other than a flash in the pan just sets you up for serious disappointment.
Once you die, you're gone. What you decided to do with your hair or what tattoos to get or what to pierce or what not to eat or wear becomes irrelevant. You're lucky if people remember you longer than 2 years.
You can wallow in your self depreciation and dislike of others, or you can let that red aura take the wheel for a while. It seems like you've done a fine job of boring yourself to death thus far.
[Edited on Feb 27, 2006 3:01PM]
I am jugging with the problem of loving and hating people at the same time.
One of the things that rates on the hate side is the need for people to be special. Many people hide behind what makes them special so they cant really see or accept who they are. Embrace your normality. In realising this and embracing your normality you are now special.
But normal is all about view point. I lurk, bookmarking your journal because I find the points you raise, what you say makes me think and consider things. To me you are not normal; you are a clever sharp-witted beautiful woman. You are flame red.
Everyone plods through life at times, grey automations, but everyone has flashes of colour.
But youre just a figment of my imagination, even more so than my concept of I.