-Ice Cube
There are something’s that people just don’t want to read.
They don’t want to read about a kid talking down to himself, they don’t want to read about people getting messed up, and they don’t want to read about anything ‘good’. Positivism genuinely means bragging. Negativity means whining. Introspection is only interesting to people who enjoy gathering up dirt on others. Bukowski wasn’t a genius, he was a drunkard. Hemingway found his answers looking straight at him with two 50 millimeter shells for eyes. Realism is just a name people give their work for it to be synonymous with relatable and surrealism is the same concept except strung out on peyote.
I’m not going to talk about any of those things.
There’s this girl I know.
She’s not really pretty but she has a nice body and a good heart. She’s stuck in a small town with a guy whom she no longer wants and she really likes me. It started off as a shallow relationship, me talking to her to get some cheap gratification and feel like I had some amazing power over women and it slowly twisted into me caring for her. It’s strange when you come to realize that you’re doing the same thing all these heartbroken writers complain about: faking love in order to avoid causing heartache. Accepting companionship you don’t want to avoid the loneliness you want to avoid more.
There’s a funny thing about the truth, it makes almost everything else seem like a lie.
There’s a group of people I know.
They spend their days getting wasted and walking around without a care. They get money, they get laid, and they live this fantastical life in the gutter of my city. I juxtapose my own life with theirs, but the truth of the matter is that we’re cut from a different cloth and that cloth is primarily colored by arrogance. These people are cooler than me and probably happier than me, but I’m smarter and envious of them. Intelligence isn’t a burden but intelligence without modesty is. Right now I’m writing confessions they will never read, perhaps because they don’t know how to read. I’m an outsider looking in, I touch upon their lives sporadically as I inhale their stories through countless grape blunts…
And then I romanticize it because just smoking weed in a car falls into another thing people don’t want to read about.
There’s a writer that I know.
He stays up late jotting down ideas and thinking about stories people will love. He calls himself a would be novelist but he lacks the patience to construct a story worth telling and he lacks the talent to write a coherent thought. He’s a writer who isn’t concise enough to be a poet. He thinks he’s going to be the greatest writer alive or at least he says it enough to convince himself of such a thing.
Arrogance with a dash of talent and an ounce of insecurity equals the next generations Bukowski, except it will be dirty south hiphop and Tom Waits who will provide the soundtrack to his writing as opposed to jazz.
Today I had planned on writing something.
I was going to get on my skateboard and skate off to a party, I was going to pay for it in quarters, get drunk and pray for enlightenment. Instead I’m sitting here stone sober and typing. Improv on the keys, looking for perspective and looking to reach into a pit of potential…
And that’s what’s the most frustrating thing about being introspective-- you know that you’re not failing to reach your potential, you just need time to reach it.
It’s even more frustrating when you’re impatient.
I don’t know the purpose of the piece, it’s not about brotherhood, it’s not about music, it’s not about booze, it’s not about bitches. It’s just a piece that is being written because it needs to be, because the only way I’m going to make it is if I keep thinking and keep putting things out there.
It’s all about perspective.
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