You’ll get something out of this if you generally…lack..stuff…on an at-least-not-snorting-cocaine-to-stay-conscious level.
I’m holding singular things. I can’t actually touch them. I see them. I hear them. I can’t smell it, but I’d recognize it, whether I was ever there or not. Regardless I feel it all.
I put it all in a place only I can access. No one else gets to check it out. Ever.
Even when we’ve blown up earth, and the fate of humanity just so inconveniently falls onto my modestly-lean shoulders. When in space I encounter these patrol aliens.
PATROL ALIEN: Wait you’re from the race of humans. Are pure dag nasty evil. But hey what’s that cool thing you’re guarding with what looks like your life, it looks like our hearts would melt if we felt what you felt from it but it’s almost like it’d be worth it. Bro say you let us have a peak, we’ll revive earth and give your villainous species a 14,000thchance. We’re time-givenofuckers.
PATROL ALIEN: Come ooon.
PATROL ALIEN: Camaaahnn..
PATROL ALIEN: Ugh fine.
The aliens fuck off. Humanity won’t get that 14,000thchance. Sorry guys. You should’ve sent Matias.
moral—actually proposition*. Who I am to educate anyone. I thi if you have something precious or precious things from a precious source, I couldn’t tell you how much you should cherish it, regardless where it goes, how long it lasts, or how uncompromisingly terrified you are of losing it. I’m not your teacher but I have pseudo-educated reasons to propose this.
I spent my brief lifespan trying to reconcile or not with what I couldn’t have as compared to those who just had it offered and given to them. And in spite of the discrepancies, rather than keep a noble track record of nurturing patience and earn the alignment of the stars, I took a space laser turret and just shot them down to harvest. This is likely partly why I’m existentially confiscated of light—I never earned it. At least not the way I used to entitle myself to.
I keep coming back to the role each person has to play—at least those who don’t unwillingly step on a landmine for stepping out of the house. If you’re able to make a physiological difference and save people on a part or full-time basis, obviously you don’t need my assholic validation. Having said that—and this of course doesn’t undermine practical person—said practical person may be too preoccupied evacuating a burning building to persuade people when they’re not trapped in a burning building to be kinder to one another. I’ll definitely keep coming back to this sort of thing, not just to convince my own self that what I do can matter. Really cause that’s what I believe about anyone who—rather than lifting your literal life from the burning building—can help lift your existential life.
I have to remember there’s a world that exists after all the fighting.
I have to remember there’s a world that exists after my excuses for dreams rain down on the city.
I have to know that as long as I’m physiologically alive, I need to have reasons to wanna be existentially alive. Two sides—same life.
And this I know my physiological wants are cartoon-low. I could live off minute maid orange juice with pulp and fuckin two scoops raisin bran if it was actually doable. I don’t need a boat. And even if I’ve done my share as a drone-working cog until more recently, even my cold psychiatrist certified that it’s a justified life choice to now bide time surviving on income benefits as a system-hacking way to get paid for committing a life to abstract art. This is even if she doesn’t see what could be so bad about reworking at tim hortons, do you wanna try being a baker? Like 89 different recipes to keep loaded at the front, you’re one dungeon goblin, and you can’t ask an oven to cook faster than an oven. Anyway I didn’t seek her added approval; the fact that Ian who actually makes money enthusiastically had my back was it. ~20 grant rejections later, no way systematic racism even if they prefer funding another poutine origins documentary. Then I humor showing the income sector a moviemaking diploma—plus the fact that I’m medically-certified nucking futs—and I’m practically implored to take the money and go manifest my destiny. Like you said Ian, government’s paying one way or another.
I don’t need a boat. But. I get why someone would prefer that you have a boat, regardless how deep they find you. You can’t physiologically travel the seas on poetry. And even if you’re not a traveller, the other person totally could be whether by identity or preference. Then right there, that’s what ruined your shot. And forgetting the boat B, I’m on edge for every part of me that counts as a missed shot before I’m moved on from to an archer. And I wasted most of my shots at the stars.
Because one way or another, I’ll be found out. I don’t need to have imposter syndrome. I don’t pick up the bow and arrow cause I know I have no grace or dexterity. I lifted the laser turret cause it sprays buck beams and empathizes with my chaotic personality. But why would you choose a 5-o’oclock-shadow perma-shroomed Cyclops over a non-overly-hairy prob-non-smelly Wolverine? You’ve no reason to.
And I’ve no reason to try conning you. You don’t need to experience a more upsetting life. I don’t need to be an even worse person. Not relative to the mine-stepper, I got no boat, no subtlety, no safety nets, no prosperity in sight. I have abstract art and desperately elaborate plays on the 3 languages I do somewhat know.
But if you could head to the sea, you would, wouldn’t you?
This might all be vainly rhetorical. Even if I put together a boat with PVC pipes and duck tape, the only sea I could take you to would probably be one of worry. haveanicelife.bandcamp.com
Thing is I’d make that shitty boat. If anything I’d find a way to get it made and actually functional [see: Demo Kioussis, physicist] To be honest my spot may not even amount to a sea so much as a downhill pond next to a remote dumping ground in bois-franc. But I’d head to that compassionately lonely place. I’d take it and go that far.
Though none of that means anything to me if you won’t want to.