If it takes 40 years I'’ll walk the thunder and the rain
"We need a voice, they say. That's all. We're sick of your hate, and we don't need your pity. We need a VOICE. Just for us. All of us. The new scum."
-- Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan
I'm not quite sure what I am anymore, nor where I would per se begin even defining myself in terms people use. Oh, yes, people have been berating me of these things recently, little pustules in my arse that they are. Realise this: I have no need for human contact other than to ease my day to day living and boredom. Human, I feel is an antiquated term, ill fitting and hatcheted apart in order to make room for me. It's not like I care anymore about the general human condition, or as if I identify with anyone as brethren. I feel a bit like god these days, so far removed and not only reflected but also understood poorly in each of the passerbys that I cross on Bearsden to Byres to West George and Regent and Renfrew. Commonly thought of as a joke, a mockery, but more subtle and worth intoning and evoking when strength is needed, that is how I am. People ask about the ink and it's a fairly simple story. Don't even begin to bust my balls on the seeming tangent this statement makes, because it IS relevant. The markings are simple, a map of sorts for my own reminder, inherent meaning given to each of the symbols, shapes, shadings, positions, blah blah blah. Horseshit. Meaningless is the essence, oh and I hear the silly sot goths rejoice wearing far too much metal in their skulls. Cunts. These are all difficult areas, so gray, such that narrowmindedness never really helps. Meaningless is a frame of mind, a frame of freedom. It's a prevention of dissention, no value, no morals, no betters, no peers. This is how I am.
Too much righteous anger is almost blissful thanks to a bit too much Transmetropolitan that I've delved (is that even a verb tense?) into today trying to root out the remainder of regret and concern and all the tiny seeds of emotion. I do feel a bit like Spider Jerusalem, which by the way is a fucking awesome name if I've ever heard one. Though I must say that Jack Kavanaugh is genius paralleled by none. I can't say whether I find this haggard circuitry a bit better than semi-functional of the same variety, whether its better to respond and crumple and rise again or to simply not sense and sit and utter a small 'meh'. Because 'meh' is the epitome of apathy and the endorsement of moving on to a different type of life, lifestyle, death, killing, consumerism, belief, non-belief, whatever.
I sit in a library soaking in the words to recycle and rush rampant to page, just so I can watch them tear down the paper and burn the world from a spark in a child's mind. I want to see that flame I kindled take hold and bash a head into another head and start a war of ideas, an exchange where resolution and growth are inevitable. But what do they want. They work, they toil so hard, sometimes even indifferently to the rest of them, but they work so fleetingly. These people don't breathe fire, I've met no one like that yet. Instead they eat themselves, they eat others, they eat each other, and worst of all they eat their own ash and flame. They burn at themselves, trying to make something of themselves at the cost of their minds and bodies and those around them. Caustic cancers of their souls. I didn't burn out, or so I like to think. I merely redirected the heat when it became too much for one person to hold, before it began to fuel itself on the excelsior that I would have been for it. Oh, sure, I would have ignited the sky, flaring like a sunward prominence, all helium and hydrogen exploding, but in a second, a novic flash, I would have gone to nothing, absolute nothing. Instead, I diverted everything to the lost words that sat in bottles in windows and dreamcatchers' webs. I found a use for the creation I was given, a way to extend myself into a different matter of greatness. While they burn away making something of themselves, I will long sit making something of the world, editing it in blue pen and people's ideas. The new currency. I might not be an Eli Wiesel, a Jack Kerouac, a Haruki Murakami, a Tolstoy, or a Vonnegut. But it's impossible to judge the expanse they've tread across. I will take my victory in one mind or two.
I want to see a child take a step I took, follow my spirit, follow my words, use them as I did and dream another layer further. I want to start a war, I want to see death. They can have their fame, their self-contained candleic light. Give me my infamy, my fire and ice.
Cheers
No comments:
Post a Comment