December 2008

The trouble with ‘modern’ music is that no matter how much you like a song you end up sick of listening to it after a while and so the supply must be constant so that people get their fix. I’m an entertainment addict, I won’t deny it. How could it be otherwise when I am so naturally and easily distracted or dazzled? The only difference, I would guess, is that I know I am being fed opium for the brain. 

At times I try hard to go cold turkey but in the end I know every fibre of my body is soaked in illusions. I keep going back for more because it does numb the pain of living, the ignorance I know exists within me like a giant void nestled in my chest.

So come on in Britney, Christina, Pink and whatever other popstar the world will spawn next. 

It’s funny to think that until only recently I was dreaming of becoming an actress, and a famous, glamorous one at that. I bought the whole fame factory story and just like so many others I kind of believed the vibe. And then I suddenly understood that all that showbiz glitter is part of a much bigger illusion-making machine.

 It didn’t bother me that I should be part of such a machine, as long as I was part of the illusion. It is the realisation that I could never join in the illusion making that now puts me off, and so I retreated into the only thing I had left: writing. When illusions become more enticing than anything reality has to offer, existence becomes a form of burden: nothing is ever enough. No illusion or delusion feels real enough and thus you look for more ways to keep the dream going.

If I wasn’t corrupted already then I would be writing about deeper, more meaningful things, but my mind can only handle dreams and fantasy- the very ones that turned me into a living zombie. yet here I am attempting to keep the machine going... Spreading the virus like a good lapdog... My social self, a good chunk of what makes me who I am is definately common and weak; another, more subtle and easily overlooked by my person, fights hard to wake me up. Perhaps that is part of the reason why I write the way I always do, writing fast to capture the gist of what I really mean even if my social self doesn’t get it. “Impressionist writing” allows me to dive deeper and reach that hidden part of me, the only thing worth salvaging, just as an impressionist would capture a certain light fading too fast. 

And then, as I try to read myself I am often baffled and unable to really grasp what it is I am trying to say. Only after a few months or years does it suddenly make sense to me. So now I am waiting, i keep writing and barely ever bother to read back because it would be far too soon and useless- I, of all people, would not get it.