A blank page. A blank canvas. Painting the emotions of my soul. Writing down the words that run through my head. Thinking about life. About the past. About the present. The future. Plans. Lessons to learn from. Decisions to make. It never ends. Life is constantly dying and being reborn. What does it mean to me? Family and friends. Slowly disconnected. All alone. Not alone. I have my wife with me. It’s great. She makes it seem like everything else doesn’t matter. Does it? Maybe nothing else does. Love. Love is all you need. Nothing but a hippie fantasy? Simplistic optimism? So what? We are all born naïve and stupid. Yet we are born wise. We unlearn the wisdom as we go alone. As we see that things are not as we imagined. Shattered dreams and illusions. Sadness and pain. Even if it’s not our own, it’s there. All around us. Heartbreak. The end of something before it begins. Preconceived notions that lead to hate. Needless death. Greed, poverty, gluttony, power. What the hell am I even saying? It’s all nothing. It’s all stupid yet it’s all wise. Bukowski wrote that, the messed-up thing about life is that the stupid people are filled with confidence, while the intelligent people are filled with doubt. I have to admit, at times I consider myself one of the smart ones. I see a broken world, riddled with fear and completely blinded. It’s uncomfortable to identify with it. I reject it. Life, however, knows how to keep us humble. I also have to admit that at times I feel like I’m one of the stupid ones. I look out at the world, at its fear and its stupidity. I see it in myself. I see the same darkness in myself that I see in the world. The potential for cruelty and evil. The world is complicated, and so is life. I honestly can’t blame anyone for being frustrated with it, or for becoming disillusioned. Like Charles Bukowski also wrote, “There is so much that I want that isn’t here.” I share the sentiment, but just like him, I don’t know where to go. To drink oneself to death? To drugs? To sex? To money and power? Where can a decent person go? I don’t know. Maybe to a blank canvas. A blank Word document, starting at me. Are my thoughts worth anything? Are they worth getting down on paper? Who the fuck knows. Then again… Who the fuck cares? Whether the thoughts are in my head or on the page, they’re the same thoughts. Random and disorganized. Always observing and trying to understand, but never quite getting there. It all seems so commonplace and routine, so dead and boring, and yet life and the world seem so alien and strange to me. Maybe art is somewhere one can go. I hesitate to call it an escape because that’s usually not considered healthy. Maybe it is an escape though. Would that be so bad? To escape into art?
I appreciate you reading.
rebel eye 