Idealised Platforms of a Selfish World

  “I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.” Jack Kerouac

I didn’t understand the silence but I cultivated it in order to justify the lack of everything: platforms of things from the past and present that mattered to us, platforms we knew wouldn’t count in the future, spinning around unable to burst out and leave our consciousness alone. Eventually we always moved on from detachments only to hang on to our own egos overtaking this too big-world of ours.

Jump to Las Vegas, Bali and wherever; it took no effort to disappear, be on top, unreachable, in the noise of a city, the ocean, the party, the lover’s orgasm and the shinning stars we knew were there but didn’t dare to look up and face our insignificance in the vast universe. Our little souls were satisfied easier than ever – photos liked by thousands, phones ringing day and night; we were entrepreneurs of we didn’t know what any more but it was huge and we were saving the world and we were a big deal.

Weary eyes, weary people, everything weary and numb like my toes without white socks, the feeling after the end of something poisonous, something important to us only when we were draining down a lost road; the weariness of being too sober to rescue the clear cut between lovers. We pretended to be good or bad, searching for better, like there was some culmination that depended on who we kept in our lives and who we let go of, but that was irrelevant – all we wanted was to look forward to a moment.

Moments were life – a force of impermanence playing with our fucked up minds, if self was only an idea what were we idealising? Only empty and awake things would never crumble away, how could we possibly keep our eyes so wide, accept aloneness and dismiss the sexuality of someone we didn’t love to surpass the vanity of wanting it all? I was ready to crumble away one day left with nothing but the memory of chasing an ocean innumerable worlds away from now. It was perfect. We’d all get there anyway, I insisted, we would find the form of our feelings and what we selfishly ached to be.

 

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