Sunday, March 13, 2011
I know this means something.
Weird title. And over a month late. Whatevs.
I've said this a lot. I've encountered a lot of things in my life and said, I know this means something.
Like looking around on the internet for dubstep that doesn't suck, and then finding one glittering perfect track amidst a bunch of stupidly bad youtube videos and comments such as "dirtier than my bongwater." Hearing this song, hearing how perfectly it moves and how you can see action happening in it, to it, around it, how you can visualize yourself walking on the moon with this playing in your ears. And it has to mean something.
Or sitting on the train, overwrought, trying to figure out how to create a truly democratic society, imagining a group of peers sitting in a perfect circle. And you think to yourself, I really don't feel like laughing right now. Like there's got to be nothing that could make me laugh right now. Because stuff is really only funny when it's happening, in context, because of who you're with. It's not like anything's objectively funny. So what could possibly happen to make me laugh, right now? And suddenly some weird voice of some guy singing comes in off the platform through the open doors of the train and everyone on the train cracks up. Even you. That has to mean something.
My life has to mean something. There's a bookshelf somewhere in my mind that has these ancient books in it, tomes, otherworldly, in a language no one speaks. And I don't speak it. It looks like nothing to me, lines of black ink symbols that I can't even fathom. But I know they say something, that information was encoded in the relative positions of these dark pigment molecules on this sheet of cellulose. I think I wrote them. We wrote them. I know it means something.
The fifty tabs open in my browser. The way I keep bookmarking webpages and forgetting to check any of them out. The wires in my computer. The transistors and the speakers and the cathode ray tubes. The books around me and the trash in my room and the garbage on my floor and my guitars. The abilities I was born with and my expanding mind. Circles. Lines. Forms. Geometry.
The moon and its perfect three to eleven ratio with the earth. The thirty three years Jesus lived. The thirty three years it takes for the sun to set in exactly the same place twice. The way the moon perfectly eclipses the sun. The tides and the rhythms of the earth.
And the way I cry. And the darkness. How much I hate myself sometimes and how much I can't take it anymore. The way it feels to be measured. Like an object. The way it feels to be expected to do something and then not be able to do it. The way it feels to fail. Expecting something of yourself that you don't have and were never taught. Procrastinating. Or just not doing the things you don't want to do. And never being able to find things you want to do.
And not being able to keep going.
I know this means something.
I've said this a lot. I've encountered a lot of things in my life and said, I know this means something.
Like looking around on the internet for dubstep that doesn't suck, and then finding one glittering perfect track amidst a bunch of stupidly bad youtube videos and comments such as "dirtier than my bongwater." Hearing this song, hearing how perfectly it moves and how you can see action happening in it, to it, around it, how you can visualize yourself walking on the moon with this playing in your ears. And it has to mean something.
Or sitting on the train, overwrought, trying to figure out how to create a truly democratic society, imagining a group of peers sitting in a perfect circle. And you think to yourself, I really don't feel like laughing right now. Like there's got to be nothing that could make me laugh right now. Because stuff is really only funny when it's happening, in context, because of who you're with. It's not like anything's objectively funny. So what could possibly happen to make me laugh, right now? And suddenly some weird voice of some guy singing comes in off the platform through the open doors of the train and everyone on the train cracks up. Even you. That has to mean something.
My life has to mean something. There's a bookshelf somewhere in my mind that has these ancient books in it, tomes, otherworldly, in a language no one speaks. And I don't speak it. It looks like nothing to me, lines of black ink symbols that I can't even fathom. But I know they say something, that information was encoded in the relative positions of these dark pigment molecules on this sheet of cellulose. I think I wrote them. We wrote them. I know it means something.
The fifty tabs open in my browser. The way I keep bookmarking webpages and forgetting to check any of them out. The wires in my computer. The transistors and the speakers and the cathode ray tubes. The books around me and the trash in my room and the garbage on my floor and my guitars. The abilities I was born with and my expanding mind. Circles. Lines. Forms. Geometry.
The moon and its perfect three to eleven ratio with the earth. The thirty three years Jesus lived. The thirty three years it takes for the sun to set in exactly the same place twice. The way the moon perfectly eclipses the sun. The tides and the rhythms of the earth.
And the way I cry. And the darkness. How much I hate myself sometimes and how much I can't take it anymore. The way it feels to be measured. Like an object. The way it feels to be expected to do something and then not be able to do it. The way it feels to fail. Expecting something of yourself that you don't have and were never taught. Procrastinating. Or just not doing the things you don't want to do. And never being able to find things you want to do.
And not being able to keep going.
I know this means something.
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