justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Hall of the Philosipher Kings, in E Major I woke up this morning like I wake up every other morning. A miasma of occular assaults backgrounded by the distinct lack of any kind of aural input. I looked up at the poster of some random bikini-clad model that adorns my wall in her quiet dignity, (the kind that no one three dimensional or unadulterated could manage) and begrudgingly allow myself a sigh of acceptance. It's all image and perception, you see. That woman, staring at me with a look in her eyes that no one ever truly recieves, and truth be told might be somewhat disconcerting in real life, has never met me. She doesn't know who I am, and doesn't even look like that. She has been altered and "improved" to better suit the needs of the smart-shopping capitalist. I try to feign a philisophical absenteeism that so many leftist capitalists like myself do every day, but I have to laugh eventually. That too is all image. I shake my head at the air brushing and other various contradictions and hypocracies of the capitalist way of life, and yet I have a poster of a half naked woman on my wall. I am a victim of the ubiquitous self-loathing of the western world, yet I make no efforts at self improvement. I hate victorian literature, yet my writing style is nauseatingly pretentious. (Don't worry, I see it too) I abandon my ponderings and move on to the bathroom. 'There, at least,' I think to myself 'are there no illusions.' I smile at this, but it's a smile that fades away as soon as I wash my hands. I am not washing my hands with soap, you see, oh no. I am washing them with "liquid skin cleansing gel." More illusions. On my quest for truth I begin reading a book, but then what is that? More musings on the ambiguous, vague, and abstract? Illusions of self improvement, like writing a 'To Do' list and then putting it carefully aside where you'll never look at it again. Philosophy and illusion is what life is composed of, apparently. We are a society that respects those that sip on brandy and nibble rice crackers while amassing their wealth on the backs of unseen, unheard middle eastern children. We are a society of thesbians who live by the american dream and a mantra of "what they don't know won't hurt 'em." And I am just as guilty. I get myself in a dangerous downward spiral when I realise that this too, is just yet another pretentious musing on the nature of the universe. Life is but a dream, and death is an alarm clock. Life is a joke, and death is the punch line. There are millions of little antecdotes I would love to spout, but then what's the point? What's the point of any of it? And then the dog walked in to my room. She licked me on the face, walked three careless and pointless circles, stared lovingly at me, and then collapsed into a deep contented sleep; reminding me that there is some kind of reality out there. I suppose it's all a matter of perspective, or perhaps a fortuitous lack thereof. Excelsior. 6:06 p.m. - 2003-05-16 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||