Sometimes I ramble mind riots
It’s not black and white, they say. That it’s all in the “grey area”. But that’s just some placating bullshit. It — is simply fucked up — tangled up, contradictory. It is bright flashes of angry red that is a secret blue.
It’s hard work to make sense out of the world. I can understand the instinct to give up. To pick one perspective and stick with it.
I am disillusioned by most ways in which we measure progress or the utility of our knowledge. Our need for validation by being on the side of the majority, for example. As someone who has spend most of life being a decimal point, I am wary of our inexplicable conditioning to convert everything into a statistic. Our charts and graphs are too literal — they thirst for more poetry.
I find it grates me how we turn art into a mystery, unattainable and above humanity. Art is mysterious because human beings are mysterious. There is nothing inherently glorious about canvas stretched on wood, paint, a pen, vocal cords. If not the tools, we hail the artist then. And only certain kinds of art, and only certain artists. We are perpetually poised — it seems — to elevate some experiences over others. We all beat a secret rhythm and dance to its tune, don’t we?
It wouldn’t be a wasted moment to be in awe of the ways in which we express our feelings, our thoughts, our ideas, our selves, our experiences with the world around us.