How friendships have actually played out for me has taken a great toll on their meaning. But perhaps, there is no such thing as meaning apart from the concrete, tangible reality itself, or rather, to shed a different light, meaning has always been a sort of elevation that is well sought after, but never entirely found.
Like art, which I regarded highly, and still strive to. It wasn't until very recently have I realized that art is a surrogate figure for me. It's where I resort to when the shiny, hopeful, and worldly things have failed. Only in art did I acquire a sense of righteousness that had otherwise been denied me. But these, these semi-congratulatory, semi-consolatory things, are indeed feeble things. They don't feed me, provide me any monetary support, fulfill any social responsibility, or purchase any BVG ticket. They exist but signify only when they're disconnected from a corporealness I once so ardently yet foolishly despised. I am me, always the person with the whim, the mortality, and the wickedness. This is a fact that, no matter how much literary deviation is added into it, won't change.
For these few weeks, or these few months indeed, I seem to have boarded a trek onto an entirely different course from what I would have dared to imagine. Judging from the perspective of contempt, I'm evidently pursuing very base an agenda. Yet judging from the usual standpoint of any usual office clerk, leading a life that has a routine is a blessing, a decency hardly mentioned in the arts where turbulence and grudge rein.
Is it fortunate? Does it befit my faith where there is none? These are hard questions for me to answer, and probably because they are more hard than they are important, I wouldn't need to care.
For look at me! Look at me! I'm no longer condescending to life! I'm condescending to art! Or to a modernist plague that has bewildered me for so long with its appearing salvation. No longer, no longer, as I put my hands in the suit pockets, swagger across the Gucci store, swipe the employee card on the security door, and go to work.
It is quite curious, now that I cannot write other than when I cannot sleep. The act of writing has been relegated, marginalized, and gradually rendered unimportant. If the words I've written betray any emotion, then I must have indeed deviated from a lot of them. I have come to be one of those people, on one of the subsistences to my distaste. But there's nothing I could make up for it, since I regret none of my decisions, and am rightfully persevere in my pursuit, to the end of which is fruitful or not I cannot tell. I'm already so pitiful as to routinely confront the reality of having to delight in KFC, one of the most soulless consumptions out there and which I readily savor. After all, of the many treats KFC is perhaps the most affordable. Even though the moment I sat done with a bucket of 18 wings, I chanted hence shall I indulge in thy sadness, I immediately began to decry as the near 12 EUR cost has been way past the daily monetary limit I set for myself.
Life could be intriguing precisely because it befuddles. Back when, so I always say, I was younger and more clueless about things, I used to revel in a sort of carefreeness so thorough that it astounds me, and not the "astound" in a calmly joking sense when I say "your eagerness to mate astounds me", but in a more dumbfounding, flabbergasting way. Supposedly I'm more knowledgeable, more adept at waddling through the many serpentinities of life. Yet surprisingly I'm neither happier nor more settled. Worse, I'm often irritable and sad, to such an extent that reminding myself of these emotions has become a taboo which I rarely touch, rarely see and rarely acknowledge. I dodge the many questionings because I think, when the answers are revealed, I don't have what it takes to endure.
But of course, aside from worrying about some gaffes I committed during work, nothing much.
