Two flavors: good and bad. And somewhere after your mid-twenties they start to bore the living fuck out of you, but that’s all you get in life. That’s when you get tired and sigh a lot and hear all the pedants you ever wanted to kill explaining preciously and with peach flavoring that “you gotta take the bad with the good.”
Of course you fucking do, that’s all there fucking is, Romeo.
Some nights it’s so fucking mundane you can’t stand to see it, it makes you want to tear your hair out. Excitement is mundane. Hell, death is mundane. James fucking Bond is mundane. Everything’s been done and done again. I alone have made this insufferably trite entry about a hundred times already, and anyone who reads it is groaning already, but if I don’t do it yet a-fucking-gain right now, I’ll have room to continue thinking about whether there’s any point to anything. I am gazing at my navel. Look at me. I am fucking gazing at my navel. GAZE, GAZE, GAZE.
Malraux: “All art is a revolt against man’s fate.”
Frankl: “For too long we have been dreaming a dream from which we are now waking up: the dream that if we just improve the socioeconomic situation of people, everything will be okay, people will become happy. The truth is that as the struggle for survival has subsided, the question has emerged: survival for what?”
Some sort of existential social upheaval that puts us all on the streets for the people of CNN-Europe to fixate on while they munch their significant others would not go amiss right now, it’d keep us all chattering like Artaud’s beggars’ teeth. Like a whiny, samey little asshole, I’m sitting here dropping the names of abused masturbators and waiting yet again, desperately, for nothing in particular.
Camus: “What is a rebel? A man who says no!”
Dostoevsky: “It seems, in fact, as though the second half of a man’s life is made up of nothing but the habits he has accumulated during the first half.”
Kafka: “Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.”
Kierkegaard: “I stick my finger into existence. It smells of nothing.”
I don’t know. Perhaps I am overplaying my hand? Now that I think about it, I’m sure of it. I take it all back. I am going to bed.