Now I remember

Now I remember why I love destruction so much.

I love it so much because of the horrible fiction we create. I used to think I knew why we created it. Escapism? Aspiration? But it seems so much simpler than that. It’s something approaching the Japanese ideologies of kirei, this… beauty in… neatness. A study in aesthetics.

That is what we have turned our existing into, an observation of aesthetics. Everything is about aesthetics. The stories of our imagination match the stories of our lives, they map out the neat, ruled, strictures of linear narrative. There’s just the right amount of danger, disappointment and then redemption.

I am restraining myself from using the most vulgar words in my vocabulary – afterall, that would merely be another observance of aesthetics.

This is wrong.
There’s something so wrong with it I feel like I need to physically relocate myself from my current position. I need movement. I need departure. I need to not get distracted from the subject.

Destruction.

That is why I yearn for narratives about decline, about the abstract and the undefined, about questions very intentionally without answers – how postmodern of me but fuckit, if I’m the ultimate postmodernist so be it. Why not. Why not be a tragic fucking halfwit like the rest of them just by another name. If so many of us are going to lay about with such horrifyingly cute and neat ideals, I may as well be the predictable antithesis of it.

Destruction, decline – even in redemption, a cost so great, so much greater than any reward… somehow I feel as though we deserve no optimism unless we embrace this decline.

All things must be destroyed. All art must be destroyed. All hope must be destroyed. All perspectives that exclude the heights of paranoia at a thing possibly not working out, the consequences that extend beyond the end credits to entire lifetimes and the entire lifetimes of generations to come…

It’s the form. I’m getting distracted again but I must discuss the form. The form is too neat. In the allotted time, too much is ellipsed over. We are to back fill the narrative with patronising platitudes in order to rush headlong into the over-sweet, saccharine conclusion, the payoff, the fucking moneyshot.

Emotional pornography, stupendous levels of indulgence, self gratification. And yes yes yes there’s nothing wrong with that. Sure. Fine. It’s all very cute. We tell these stories because sometimes we just want something nice. Yes. Sometimes I want something nice. I guess that’s what it is.

But context is kicking me in the face right now because it fits in with another thing and I’m going to have a few words about that in a private entry and some day I’m going to show it to someone and I’ll get animated and passionate and frustrated all over again and it’ll be such tired old hat but damnit if it isn’t just too classic and far out I’d hoped that a particular kind of mind would have at least grown out of it by now.

Baaaaaaah – patience. The patience for other people. People’s patience with me. I’ve had enough of patience. I don’t want people to be patient with me any more. I don’t want to have to wait and I don’t want to do the wrong thing that people don’t get into. We’re wasting time. All the hesitation,

it’s the hesitation,

all the hesitation wastes monumental amounts of time.

Fuck.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Nope, have to go write the private entry now.
It’s quarter to midnight and I’m wide awake and am contemplating coffee because fuck that, that’s what you do. You don’t get tired and you don’t dream of it and you don’t faff about romanticising things that carry the illusion of being tangible but are in fact ridiculous fictions to the point of being more fanciful than magic and dragons and shit like that. You do it.
You just fucking do it.
So fuck it. I’m making myself a fucking coffee and if I don’t sleep and if I have a fucking car accident tomorrow because I’m so fatigued fuck it at least I fucking lived goddamnit.