A Collection of Spectacles

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Note: I can’t take full credit for the topic of this post. The beginning is inspired by a discussion held during my first year writing course. The rest is a tangent I went on in my mind while it was going on that I failed to bring to the table at eight in the morning. 

Opponents of the current notion of human nature, as it exists in today’s society, would say that small discourses are what make up a person. Conjure an image of someone in your mind. Certain words should spring forth: Woman, Middle-Class, Single, and so on. Without these identification tags, we return to infancy, left with nothing more than the statement a doctor gives when he says,”It’s a girl.” These words that we pick up along the way and attach to our personas are put in place by society, yet they are not fixed. They can change, just as a disgruntled libertarian can (with a push) become an anarchist. In arguing with an argument, one could say that some qualities like greed and empathy transcend language barriers, and that these are what constitute human nature’s core. Returning to that which we identify with, it seems as though sexual identification is always near the top of the list. A big deal is always made out of who someone is seeing and for what reason. To some degree, this is absurd. Sexual identification neatly packages one’s preference into a few tidy terms, which stuffs a complicated topic into that which is less than befitting. Society, demands this form of labeling, but by simplifying sexuality and love, it halts its own progress. In the same vein, as the individual fixes himself to one word, he trades in intellectual and spiritual growth for the “greater good” of becoming part of a collective. Though the Kinsey Scale is seen as little more than a scientific artifact, a ripple in a sea of misconception, most still feel the urge to nail themselves to a number. 

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my love is spread across the landscape and dolled out to people i respect on a daily basis. it is rationed out in even partitions and, spare a few exceptions, is distributed without care. 

the above bit was written weeks ago. i started this post and then saved it. now, i can’t finish it because i can’t mentally revisit what i was thinking at that particular moment.

well, i can’t explain myself. i tried to keep something as informal as possible and ended up leaving my imprint on the bed. 

i’m displaying a peculiar brand of semi-predictable erraticism. by that, i mean that each bout of happiness or depression is predictable in nature, but the exact timing of each when always goes undetected. since i subconsciously frown upon anger, i try my hardest to suppress it, and thus, it is absent from the equation. the ending of each bout is heavily punctuated by seconds (that sometimes develop into moments, that sometimes evolve into horrible periods) of empty nothingness (the deepest absence of feeling that one can achieve) and is sometimes abruptly interrupted by short bursts of passion.

passion has become the splinter in my side, the constant annoyance that irritates and infects. the nuisance and pain that seems to be lifted only when my dress is removed. 

when i get a notion about a particular person and it’s lustful in nature, strong feelings rise to the surface that infect every thought that passes through my mind until i give in and comply with the side of me that lacks rationality. maybe part of it is the thrill of conquering something new. 

the slightest amount of tension ignites the coolness that i try so hard to maintain and results in a violent eruption of carnal impulses.

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i should nickname every boy i lay with. so that when i’m old and the real names have all turned into blank spaces at least i’ll have something to hold onto. or maybe i’ll write them all down like case studies. i’m sick.

this past weekend was eventful. 

i’d call him america because he reminded me of everything name brand that annoys me. everything that is wrong with the average product here (placed in the best packaging but the item inside is lacking in some respects) and was unhealthily attached to the phone. in the land of the disposable everything, he is used to serve a purpose and is then easily discarded afterward.  

maybe i should come attached with a list of rules and stipulations. the most important one being that i don’t have any to begin with. part of me could see this becoming a habit. i could simply leave bits of myself lying around in different bedrooms (breadcrumbs strewn here and there). i wonder if something inside is still trying to pick them up and find its way back to a path. then again, what’s the use of following the road to self-improvement anyway? and who’s to say that my way of going about these matters is bad? if i don’t know life’s end result then why not take time out to soak in the forest of self-indulgence?

 not much is left. 

i hate contrived machismo. the forced lack of emotion is always apparent. it’s insulting to people who really can’t care anymore. 

i’m done worrying about conventional prettiness. women should sink into self assuredness and stop wanting to disassemble the body they see in the mirror. sometimes how you’re perceived is a direct reflection of what you think of yourself. likewise the quantity or quality of who you’re with can’t be relied on as an appropriate measure of attractiveness so there’s no use in wasting life insecure. dismantle a girl’s femininity completely and she never wins the date. hide every trace of masculinity and she becomes paper-thin, unable to combat hardships. most are born with a decent balance between the two but some willingly give up parts of themselves as time goes on. 

part of me can’t wait until i leave. i’ve emotionally purged my body of my naive former self in this town. i’ll leave behind a captivating corpse but that’s about all. 

12 and spending a summer in brooklyn. my aunt forces me to make friends with a girl on the block so i won’t be lonely (but how could i be? i’m an only child. i’ve learned to make a sport out of loneliness) i hate everything about her because she is pushy and arrogant and annoying. she likes to climb to the top of the stairs and tell me we’re going somewhere. when i don’t want to go she says i’m leaving you. these words in particular always make me follow.

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