Sunday, December 18, 2011

Kinda like Tupac.

In the recent couple months, I've delved extensively into the Occupy movement. I've learned lots of things, met tons of people, and did what I've always loved.

Circle jerk?

Expressing myself, and being appreciated for it.

This has led to a remarkable boost of confidence, and a feeling that, frankly, I'm beginning to actualize the meaning of my existence.

It is within this beautiful little sentiment that an underlying concern nags at the ends of my consciousness, like a child tugging at the calf.

That you don't circle jerk enough?

I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die.


I mean, inevitably, yeah. But like within the next 5 years.

Of course, I have no viable evidence. The only thing I can successfully point to is that I have never been able to envision myself beyond the age of thirty. I have never been able to fathom the career I would have, the family I would be maintaining, or the adulterous slut I'd invariably ruin my marriage with.

But she'll be worth it.

Future slut aside, for all 21 years and 12 days of my life, I have not been able to crystallize my future, and though I hold no spiritual beliefs of any kind, I feel like whatever ether I trust in granting me foresight should have the vision if the vision was there.

But it isn't.

The psychological quirk that takes fetish about death is my intense discomfort with social success. As a kid, having been the victim of bullying, racial/social discrimination, and all-around dorkiness, I'd always felt like I would not achieve success. And that if I did, it would be sharply equalized by an ugly consequence.

'Cause for every time I thought I was a good writer, been a good person, or, goddamnit, thought I looked good that day, there was something waiting to destroy all of it.

A man with a van and two fingers.

This is probably a plausible, and perhaps more accurate, reason for the increased paranoia over my own mortality.

But I admit to innately preferring a young death.


I'll preface it with this:

The success of one's impression is directly affected by the age of that person. For example, a 5-year old reading material years beyond his age is more impressive than a 25 year old reading that same material. In some unwritten truth, there is a list of things you should already be capable of, and list of things you should not be capable of. To do the former is expected. But to do the latter is impressive.

And as you get older, your expected capabilities grow more vast, and you are less likely to impress anyone. After all, if you're 45 years old, shouldn't you be good at something? And if you're 10 years old, shouldn't you suck at everything?

Get better, twat.

Having established that, if my self-imposed purpose in life is to make an impact and be impressive, wouldn't it be in my vested interests to die early? Lest my ability to impress stagnates, and my impact becomes less notable?

Also, in truth, if I died right now, the potential I leave behind is left to one's imagination, which can far exceed any potential I can bring into fruition. i.e. Dead, I could've been a President. Alive? A blogging twat who worked at a hipster hotspot.

That's either way, really.

And it goes without saying everything I'd ever done will be hindsighted the fuck out of. I don't mean to pretentiously predict my friends will just feverishly read/hear everything I've ever done, but that it happens every time someone dies. Look at Amy Winehouse; I'm pretty sure someone would be flinging crackhead jokes right now if she weren't in an underground box.

It's okay Amy; I never liked you.

Too soon? Exactly.

Will I die in 5 years? I think so. Do I want to? Vaguely. Ultimately, I'm pretty scared of death. I think any sane Atheist should be.

omg i can't wait to see this forever!!!!111

Ideologically though, I'm prepared, most especially if it's because of my beliefs or principles. At the very least, my death could be absorbed into an idea. And ideas cannot be murdered. No this was not V for Vendetta-inspired.

Fuck off with the masks.

But that at least there will have been a purpose, and that my eternal nonexistence will be paralleled by a similarly eternal idealism. Perhaps one that's actualized in my wake.

I wouldn't prefer it, I suppose. I guess I just wouldn't be surprised. No matter how much logic I use to anchor the generic scarification of bullying, occasionally poor parenting, discrimination, and alienation, I'll always be inundated by it's ever looming presence.

I don't really expect you, the reader, to have any particular reaction. Please, don't let this sway your normal response. 'Cause like everything else, I just want you to know what I was thinking, and why I thought it. And I want unadulterated opinions, not coerced sympathies.

I will release 5 blogs post-mortem.


  1. Pineapple ...very sets you up like Schroedinger's cat sort in a box...with poison gas...the cat is perceived as both alive and dead simultaneously here we are...thinking about you in the terms in which we know you...and the you who you MIGHT be too...interesting...also...10 year olds are great at something...BEING TEN....and there is one thing you are already great at...that NOT ONE OTHER PERSON CAN BE AS GOOD AT....that's being regardless of what else you become or not have that....annnnnd....for every moment past five years from will be living a gift....use it...cherish it...etc...but don't wait for blogging twat!

  2. Loving you more each time I read what you write. You are already someone special in my eyes. I am learning from you and I am sure others have, there lies your legacy in life and in death. I don't care to discuss what you could have been because of your early demise. I am happy to be a part of who you are now and will be. Keep writing, inspiring, and living.