Cracks
We were walking down the street. The broken little street looked as if it were trying to deter our walk. I couldn't stop babbling. I was a little too giddy and I was a little too nervous. For some reason lately this is how I get when I talk to someone I really want to talk to. It could be the detiorating neurons all fighting for air. It could be my pensiveness towards opinions about myself. The visionary lies to himself, the liar only to others.
And that's what happens inside your head. You start to lie to yourself about who you are and who you love. You start to sell yourself short or too long. But, the point is you aren't really who you are. You are more than likely who the people around you want to be or who they want to see.
As they all sat in my apartment playing their guitars and stupid little drum machine asking me "What do you think?", "Would you write lyrics for me?" I thought to myself, "I don't enjoy your company that much." I thought to myself, "This is all futile star gazing and I don't enjoy it. I appreciate your desire to express yourself but you aren't expressing yourself as much as you are running from any sort of responsibility. There isn't enough art in you to make up for the fact that you can't compete with the rest of society."
I can be so republican that it's scary. But in all actuality it’s time to grow up. I don’t play. I don’t write. I don’t paint. I’m a critic. And, you know what they say about critics.
And the strange part is that I know they are reading what I am writing right now and now that I have written about their questions, they know exactly who they are. But again, I need to be honest. I don't enjoy your art that much. I don't agree with our relationship of strange convenience that we have as we attempt to jump over cracks in the street that we both live on. Gentle passes in the afternoon don't mean anything to me, and late nights watching you get high off of glass bowls full of marijuana make me sick to my stomach that you are in my home; our home. Your inability to capture anything more than a second of boring mediocrity matched with your inability to see the malaise on my face as I set up my DVR to record "Deadliest Catch" just again buries your effort further below my appreciation.
So with each passing moment I make my own art. There are physical moments to be had with other artists. I am a muse. I am a reasoning voice outside of pot. I am the rainmaker to what I know. But I can't lie about it. I can't sit idle and pretend to pretend. I can't get high with you and start to appreciate what is just, well, garbage. I've seen good art and I've met good artists and their abilities don't surpass yours and they may not even be AS talented, but the difference is that they know it. They do what they do because they love what they do. They don't do it to escape it into a world filled with other smelly people telling each other how smart they are or how talented they are. They write, paint, and make music with individual ambition directed towards an outlet. They don't make their outlet an excuse to ignore individual ambition.
Anyway, that's my piece of mind. Hate me. Come get your guitar that you left. Ignore me when I walk down the cracked street, but the bottom line is I just had to tell you that I don't dig your art the way you go about it.
