So it hits me…life is nothing but a series of small and often random events summed up to reach an inevitable point of time that becomes our death. But when looking back at it all, the meanings become far too scattered, too blurry, too indeterminate. Far too often people wonder what life is all about and we (the living) struggle in summarizing the purpose or the what has been of the deceased. And so I laugh at the dilemma of the obituary writer. But then it occurs to me, your life should never become a mystery to you or whomever is left to write about it. If it is, you are doing it wrong.
I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War’s a spiritual war… our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won’t. And we’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off
"Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life. Aim above morality. Be not simply good; be good for something."
Henry David Thoreau
Whatever it is that afflicts you? Get over it. You will be dead faster than you had hoped
Writing is easy; just open up a vein and bleed
Let’s our words be like kerosene and our actions become the spark that light this world on FIRE!
-Cunning, Creative and Rebellious
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