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by Bluesy
Rated: 18+ · Preface · Cultural · #1120678
Preface to a road trip journal I might write.
These Tongues Taste Romantic

         You would ask, “What are you scared of, doin’ all this runnin’”. And you’re right. I am scared, and I am running. I always knew I had been, but I had just been too ashamed, lacking too much social-assurance. Yet now, it’s all in perspective. I hate. I hate “people”; I hate society; I hate the way I’d get up every morning at the same time to do the same thing that made me feel the same fear of monotony that I felt at the birth of every day. I’ve never been good under that kind of pressure to perform that consistently; that mechanically, anyways. It’s inhumane.
         Though, I’ve always been good under passion, and that’s why I do what I do. I need that dynamic for change; I need my humanity; my sanity. I need life. I suppose you might think of me as a coward for running, but I don’t think so. Perhaps this is just my ignorance propping me as arrogant through denial; perhaps it’s that I’m running from a certain death. I look at you when you ask “What are you scared of”, and all I can do is laugh, because you really just don’t know do you? You’re drowning; I’m swimming. When you’re in church, when you’re high, when you’re fucking a beautiful girl; whatever your fix may be; whatever reassures that you are, in fact, very, very alive; so alive that you’re invincible in your mortality, don’t you just want to roll with it and say, “fuck it”?
         Well, this is what I do. For the lack of better words, I fuck it. There are those like you who feel powerless on their own and must let society think for them; ‘breathe when all breathe’. You can only be self-assured through being socially-assured (and I say let it be). In your state of unity, you all are most definitely invincible, everlasting. You are God. But then there’s me. I am self-assured by being assured that, as crazy as it sounds, I am already who I am, and that there’s no possible way to take that away from me. Goddamn rights I’m not gonna be hooked up to a global respirator. I breathe when I need to. Yea, I’m gonna die, but this just means there will be absence where I use to be, and who doesn’t want to be felt?
         It’s okay though. You all seem smug enough watching me run; watching me dance in catharsis; watching me live. I have myself. I’ve seen your faces that don’t have what I have; faces that have only each other. Not one of your faces has itself. Alas, your arms are full of masks. But, as much as you don’t need me, I need you all to feed off of; to make my life simpler Your death; your technology; your mechanization defines my life through sheer contrast. It’s the beauty of my system, because people will always be weak; people will always need to belong, always. So when you ask, “What are you scared of, doin’ all this runnin’?” don’t bother. I could tell you, but then if you realized that what I was running scared from were you all; that what I hate is all of you, then maybe you’d try and catch me. And, after all, for the lack of a better argument, why mess with a good thing?
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