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why do i have to be a functioning member of society?
isn't it enough to just read books—kerouac and salinger over and over again, austen and bronte or tolstoy and dostoevsky, plath and all the women that try to emulate her without confessing (i'm talking about you, otessa moshfegh—and write books? isn't it enough to listen to music that came out days and decades ago? isn't it enough to love the world and live in it?
i don't want to end up in a conventional job just to satisfy my father. i want to be a writer, write about the pretty and the gritty, write phrases that nauseate my mother and morbidly fascinate my childhood best friend. i want to fall in love quickly and irreversibly, with someone who will get it, this visceral desire to do nothing but succumb to the written word. i want to spend the rest of my life traipsing around with people even more insane than i am, not a single care for the world, no desk jobs or deadlines or husbands or wives or kids, no slipping into the suburban.
(i know. i know it's impossible, and yet i still ache for it.)
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chelle
The wish to be someone, though incurably pretentious and unattainable, is the equivalent of being set on fire and then put out - only to beg for it all to happen again. Like a moth in the attic attacking the clothes you wish you had taken better care of, the hope of a simple life (and the skills to keep it so) is a hopeless and inevitable one.
A functioning member of society we will all curiously never seek to be, but the paradox of it would make us functioning, no? The decades we long for have never been so far in the past and still so prevalent in our present – writers though we may or may not be, children we will remain. And the children we are are now the ones we never got to be, forced to grow up in the age of guilt and greed (though elderly adults will think us ungrateful and lazy for thinking we were when they so clearly think they had it worst), and now reaping the rewards of an unforgiving world that is soon doomed to fail.
What can we do but succumb to the insufferable pleasure of having no distinction? Forgive me for thinking it will all be for nought, in the end.
"what can we do but succumb to the insufferable pleasure of having no distinction?" thank you for putting this into words
by ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* leah *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧; ; Report