21 November 2008 - carbon copy
I’m eating another neatly made sandwich while sitting at a neatly aligned table. The table is white and hard and artistic. Or what young people look at and deem as artistic. As something you would want to buy to put next to your artistic chair to further claim artisticness. Do I even like the chair? No. It’s somewhat uncomfortable and the legs are spindly and look as if they couldn’t support me if I decided to cross my legs; which I do a lot. There are a few artistic claiming people near by me with berets and sunglasses. I think they look ridiculous. They are drinking coffee and coffee is ridiculous.
I don’t know why I am so over it. Everything feels synthetic and artificial. Oh, it is not just an opinion I feel purely about my surrounding universe, no. That smile I gave to the lady who served me my water; fake. This water I’m drinking; fake. I didn’t come from a Switzerland-like place filled with blonde happy girls. My attitude towards life itself; fake.
Tell me why to try when everything is predominantly an extravagant and twisted version of plastic. Nobody cares, nobody feels, nobody is real. The clothes I choose to wear aren’t me. The clothes you choose to wear aren’t you. We simply and quite frankly do what we think ought to be done. It doesn’t even have to be a bad thing, it just is.
I will go through life trying to succeed and achieve and reach “that goal”. When actually, I have no goal. Wanting a high profile job with cold hard cash, that isn’t a goal. Oh, but you know that don’t you? Your goals are much more new-age and intangible. But are you working towards that goal? Is anyone? I don’t think so. So we can call that our fake goal. Our goal we have because it is just that. Don’t get me wrong, I dream of reaching that goal. But I close my eyes and I dream at night and wake up in the morning and try to accomplish “real” goals.
I don’t know. I don’t really care, remember?
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