1.20.09

the classics, pt 2.

This, condition.
Our condition.
The "human", condition.

We are all bred, this certain way. This way were taught, brought up, and trained. Brought up to be some certain way to people that wont be around for much longer. What do we have to prove to them other than that we can hold a shovel and dig a grave. Nothing, I say. We have nothing to prove other than the simple fact that we will remain, and self sustain. Multiplication of self feels for so long as an option but soon becomes a need. The need to replicate is a strong one and can heavily influence the decisions one makes in this carnival called life. Pushed and pulled like some pig on auction we wander through this life adrift, lost amongst a sea of those who are certain.
Oh, certainty. Rare, but always pure. Its one of the few things in this world we can truly define as clean, and until dashed, wholely pure. For as long as its true to that person it will always retain its purity. The matter being of where we apply that certainty, thats the real enigma. Some are certain that no matter what, things will work out. Others, that the world will end if a single misstep is made. The human condition is what separates and binds us, twisting and twirling a billion humans at once through the universes washing machine. Trying to shake our grounding, our belief system, our morals. Strength is present in times like these and its true form is shown to us only when we discover it within ourselves. The strength to carry on, the strength to perservere, the will to do the bidding of our society, our parents, and the ones we love. That, is strength.

So what is it when we choose the opposite. What shows of our character when we don't align, or when we opt the latter. The "path less traveled", if you will. We become these, these characters of outcast. The understudies to the truly great. Waiting to snatch up whatever opportunity falls through the cracks of dissonance, and gobbling it up thusly. I feel slowly but surely Im becoming that, while all the while trying to maintain what my ancestors set in motion as the right idea, the correct plan. And then I start to ask myself what I truly want. Conformist? Or perhaps the role of Outcast. The one who fits not within our society but one within his own mind. Spinning and swirling in a humdrum of random thoughts, ideas, and unapplied theories. Sputtering drunk on 5th avenue telling of the end of the world to an audience that will never listen. Ill say it once and Ill say it again, what good is an idea if you dont have an audience. I pull on my strength and I pull on my ideals, both instilled in me by my forefathers and those before them. A caste system drilled into the skulls of the ever-willing and never questioning.
So who am I to question it.
Some...fucking punk.
Some guy who thinks he has the ability to be something different.
When I sit in a room with 30 others with ambitions close to my own. Falling back in to this repetitive cycle of stare, listen, and learn. I feign interest ever so carefully as I release my creative beast via pen and pad.

In a world that places little value in creativity I find myself clawing at its coat tails, begging to be one with it, when all I truly want is to be free from it. I'm more human then ever in these moments. Pondering when I should be consuming. Learning when I should be playing along. Creating when I should be conforming. Its that silly human condition. Say one thing, do another. And within that we find each other, either lying in the gutter, tounges relentless, or sitting at a desk, mouths zipped shut.

Pity we cant have both.