What is expected of me?

Am I to inspire you, to move you to the stage that tears roll down your face, and you feel you have made a discovery within the words you read? Should the language you absorb shift you to a different place by its conclusion, or will you simply be dissatisfied that you have not bettered yourself in some small way as a result? I don’t want to show you aspiration, sorrow, fear or any other emotion that you wish to squeeze out of this moment. I don’t want to take you on a journey of manipulation so that you cry when I want you to cry, you laugh at the appropriate moments. Hell, I would wistfully think it fitting for you to laugh at the most inappropriate of times, just to prove that you’re as alive as me. All I demand of you is that you read. You take away what you wish, and leave the bits you don’t want Just don’t bring your expectations; don’t read with the intention that you must learn something. The stories that I write of, the feelings evoked and then relived are not laid out before you to feel any of these things; they just happened. I’m not going to induce or uplift you, but simply tell you that this is how life is. This is existence; its not got to be intelligent, or provide depth, or meaning.

Our lives are one big, gigantic chaotic mess, and instead of searching to understand in what sequence we should be doing things, maybe the first step to the bullshit they call enlightenment is to accept that that’s how it is. No reasons, no consequence, no motive, no Big God in the sky, no basis, no purpose, no intention. It just is; and whatever you gain from this, I’ll simply be content that you picked it up and gave it a go. Treat it like you would hidden treasure, pick it up in stages and savour it, or you may despise the very content and still be drawn to it like a car crash. Fuck it if you hate it or love it, right? This is the new way to be. To just be. Sally Brampton tells me, ‘Life is connection; there is nothing else.’ To have a purpose is found in the smallest of details rather than the large dramatic gestures that the human race chase and as a result look like complete and utter imbeciles, growing old and having to settle for a mediocre life instead of the one that the movies sold to them. When the mediocre is just as fantastic as the big screen, but because they were so focused on chasing perfection, they failed to notice the perfection of the moments that played out before them.

It’s not the things that happen to us that make us, but they are the things that connect one person to the next. Without these, we would fail to exist in a world that encourages us to alienate from one another so avidly. To feel, is to reach out to the next person and kiss, lick, punch, claw them until they feel something in return. We feel only when we make someone else feel something too. To induce that in another person? That’s really living. Because then you know something real has just happened.

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~ by Scarlettice on November 15, 2009.

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