LETTERS FROM MY DRAFT BOX
Due to complication from life, this week, enjoy some letters of existential woe from my draft box:
April 25, 2011
i have lifted myself up out of poverty to no real avail. the difference now is a new found freedom, that freedom which lies in my ability to consume. There are things that I want, things that I am compelled to accomplish but seem nearly impossible and ultimately leave me so frustrated that I retreat to the glitter and spectacle of consumption, the only real freedom I have, the only reality that is easy to attain. We isolate ourselves and to the position we are born to, here am I , the struggling descendant of a displaced aristocracy, still haunted by the memory, still hungry for my throne. Power for powers sake, with no real use for that power, no real good to be done of it. I am limited to my thoughts and I cry the obnoxious blabber of a spoiled child. No one can do what they want. No one can have what they want. Is that the underlying message of humanity? Why help those who spurn our help? Why reach out to those who repeal at our advances, content to be cocooned away, nestled in their nest of gold?After all this time I don’t know what I want. I think I know, but that is something else. I hate to believe that the ultimate destination of freedom is consumerism, but as I continue to work, like a good little bee, I can’t help but feel that is the only dream we wake up from.
Sept 8 2011
last night i dreamt i was a serial killer. out in my art gallery, i would drag the bodies to a large potted tree area in the back foyer. There, a friend would help me wrap the bodies in black plastic bag. It was all for art, in the name of art. However, I soon discovered several cameras in my studio space, documenting every movement I had made. My accomplices had already been picked up by police. Discovery was certain. I waited quietly in my apartment, certain the police would arrive at any moment. I did not mourn those I had murdered. My stomach filled with knots, I was caught and my close friends entangled in my mess. That was my concern.
Today I’m not so frightened of anything. I have my freedom and my moral standing. Do individuals matter? Perhaps not. But the consequences of my action certainly matter in the outcome of my life and those I affect. We may all die in the end, but death is in the future and my soul is in the present. God willing.
Nov 4, 2011
You are wasting my time.
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