Mike Rot (Clever Beast)
Mike Rot (Clever Beast)
(incidentally love how this image compliments the last one I posted)
I cherish my solitude; even around people. Where once the Victorian ethic and the voice of my mother mattered, this compliance to the social will no longer feels necessary. It is not nerves nor a Raskolnikov experiment that keeps me here, rather your congregation of agitations does not entice me. Perhaps I am designed differently, or it is that I fell upon different books. The world is a pantomime; that which it knows secondhand, I cherish in the first.
December is the time that people meet up with characters they have ignored all year, find themselves holed up in coffee houses or for brunches, to catch up or confess, to tear the fabric of habit and find momentary asylum in the rabbit-hole born of sly solicitations. It goes as quickly as it comes, and afterwards it is not spoke of again. I live in those frigid, fringe Decembers - and hibernate the remaining months of the year.
We are told to be car-salesmen selling ourselves with teethy grins, competing for friends and positions in high places. Those who do not comply out of petulance or pride sink beneath this orgy of being heard. For those that are car-salesman by design, wired gregarious with a glint in their eyes, this world must seem like Providence.
When introducing a new food to my two-year old son, I have learned that the best method for success is to set it before him without much coaxing, allowing him to receive it on his own terms. The more I try to force, the greater the resistance; even at so young an age there seems a natural inclination towards freedom of choice. My adult life seems likewise defined by a resistance to the brute force of an other, that societal mistake, imposing with a strict hand how I ought to behave, ought to think, ought to achieve success. As if we were all one and the same.
I am not a car-salesman. I see through personality, as I suspect many others do. What else can I do but revolt? It is a rebellion of the spleen, the a priori fact of my being. Life is but a struggle to repatriate the inner voice and the temperamental choice. I ask only of the world to permit me to receive it on my own terms, with a degree of tolerance, patience, and respect. And I will return them in kind.