THE ARTIST IN THE SUBURB

Last night I tried to write a story.  It was intended to reflect the tension between competing philosophical and ideological differences of day to day life.  Each philosophy makes complete sense on it’s own, yet some how leaves another perfectly sensible idea unfinished, void of meaning or completely incomplete.  Isn’t this the human condition?  Completely incomplete?  Blissfully ignorant and desperate for knowledge.  Wanting meaning more than anything.  

Well, fuck me, I digress.  I’m an artist. I’m trying to FEEL like an artist by doing something different.   I’m trying to resonate with someone by making them feel something and I know people like stories.   Is this not the human story any way?  Is this not what we long for?  Manifesting our perfect destinies by doing the opposite?  Watching shitty horror films on netflix?  fuck that… Fail Army.    Anti-manifesting.  Like anti-vision.  If you know what you don’t want, you’re a lot closer to what you want.   

So, last light I tried to write  a story.  I had vision.  I had desire.  Turns out what I REALLY wanted was a cigarette, 3 cold hot dogs and to not feel like a guy in the suburbs.