Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, "What a weird subjective experience you decided to have this time around - maybe we should just give up now and try again?" I try to incorporate the mess that is me into art, because otherwise, I am just a mess - a human with my viscera splayed out all across the earth, pantomiming how I think I should feel and juxtaposing different pieces of myself because I can't seem to get the symmetry right and being an all-out hypocrite in random directions. This is seen in its most obvious form on the Internet. I can see the trails of random blips of consciousness dotting an imperfect line - the thumbprints I leave on Twitter and Facebook, the google searches that only lonely people leave in the middle of the night, the youtube videos of girls in drag-inspired makeup with contour and highlight like a disco ball that I watch because it feels good to be able to see a human face that can't see me back.
And I feel the need to be surgical in my life without really understanding why - should I blame the magazines, Instagram lyfe, or my deep-seated hatred of the self? It's difficult to say - but from the beginning I determined that I was "not enough" and the solution was to become crystalline - skin draped over bones with no fat on them, writing like a robot who only understand emotions through books, tea instead of chips, constantly drinking but never drunk.
Of course, I failed. I set up the process from the beginning to fail. It doesn't help that I'm a combustible person, I bury things deep inside of me until they explode. I drip with palpable anxiety. I'm "so shy" and "so quiet." I write about how much I hurt but I answer comments with a smile, because I'll never let anyone in to the sticky mess that I write about in public. I write to say - I fucking dare you to come close, I fucking dare you! I wear my heart on the outside like it's both a warning and a shield. Sometimes I eat too much pizza because I get hungry! I gain an extra five pounds. Fat fills the frame, my skinny jeans are a bit tight, I hurt someone I love, I say something stupid that I didn't mean to, I take too long to write a book, or I write the book for the wrong reason. I see a plot hole and I want to jump into to commit suicide. Sometimes red lipstick gets on my teeth, I drink all of my flask in the bathroom of a party, flirt with the biggest asshole in the room, and the illusion is shattered.
Human beings aren't surgical, precise, machine-like. We're a delicate and roughshod composite of push-pull processes designed to keep us at homeostasis, push waste through the body, make sure that we stay sane even in awful conditions, . Nature doesn't stick to the careful lines - but fractal processes never do. The golden ratio only cares about maximization of energy with minimum effort - that's why the mascara drips down when I cry instead of holding fast to the eyelashes. Nature doesn't care for my waterproof imagination! It doesn't care that by my made-up, fantastical, ridiculous standards I am a mess - a globule of data leaving sticky sweet fingerprints across protocols that were built to incorporate imperfect movement. Reincarnation isn't going to make my spastic impulses a work of art.
A mess! I'm a mess, what a fucking lie - this was the design all along.
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written words are ways to create meaning and values in life..happy for you. you did it!
Absolute beauty is rather plastic and boring. True beauty is juxtaposed with our imperfections, it is an unexpected mystery.