Chooose new.. new, new. new. There is nothing new under the sun nor is there anything to know. we never knew and will never know.
quite a dilemna if you ask me. not a dilemna if you ask anyone else.
although he feels it too. even if he doesn’t show it. hopelessness is all there is.
cover it up for the day to day just to get by and enjoy the moment but ever coming closer to the end.
crazy. crazy. you must be crazy to live happily. or ignorant. but everyone knows what’s happening. you can’t keep the truth. the real truth from anyone. because truth is mortality. and one day every man will learn that truth about himself. and everyone woman’s fate will be the same too. death. death.
What shouldn’t I do? If i feel trapped by the truth is it really setting me free?
But what sets me free isn’t the truth of mortality. it’s the joy of the experience. the fleeting nature of experience. in one ear and out the other. smooth like jazz. experience is fleeting. experience is life. life is fleeting. mouth of the river spat into the ocean.
SO other than the truth of mortality there is the truth of the individual. the individual’s rights and the individuals wrongs. right to life liberty and depression. right to things and no things and all things and anything. right to suffer with nothing. right to prosper with everything. its a right for me and a fantasy for he who crawls the dusty streets of some third world village waiting to pass his soul into the fourth dimension of time. mortality for us both. how about that. death the only real rite.
nothing separates any man from everyman except the collective memory of how he spent his days. nobody cares how he actually spent his days. because no doubt it was a cruel combination of wishful thinking and painful reality just like you or i. we want fictionalized truth. even our realists are idealized. we accept their reality in an ideal deal with the devil. we desire to suffer just like they or else never know truth. but truth we will know in time. day that we die.
James Franco in the faggish costume of Ginsberg proposed that I should write all day. he looked right into my soul and the cameras lens and demanded that i write all day. I know I never will. but the thought was nice James. It was encouraging and ideal. Maybe it was even what Ginsberg himself did. But I feel more and more that he only had a few brief moments of such ridiculous ecstasy. such contradictory unpleasant happiness. of hollowed eyes and sore fingers. I doubt that he lived that way long. He seemed far too sane. too convinced. But who knows. its all fictionalized all a game and a show to interest me in something new, something once knew and now embraced as true. something pure in its grime.