Listening to Tom Petty's "Good to be King" ... no need to synopsize, but the song is the perfect soundtrack for dejection. The unobtainable dream.
I've often decried that people can't "make it" today the way they used to, but I know that's horseshit. People are still making it. It's definitely a different era now than it was when Bob Dylan came to New York, but his present to him could much have been what mine is to me. He managed. I haven't.
Still, time's have certainly a-changed. There was no Fallout Boy back then, no Good Charlotte. None of the crap that exists today. There is so much bullshit that to sift through for anything of quality is nearly impossible ... which is why the shit proliferates. The quality isn't an issue when the product sells, so it makes business sense to mass produce and replicate that product until it's saleability has been exhausted.
I tried to write tonight ... some fiction, but it's not fiction. Nothing is ever fiction; everything is derivative of life and if life is a poor inspiration then nothing can be derived therefrom.
I left the house once today, after the sun had set, to take out a bag of cat shit and some recycling. I stood for a moment in the front yard of the brownstone in which I live. The weather was pleasant, and I wished I lived somewhere I could walk freely without the worry of being shot. At this point though, I wonder why I worry about such a thing. The prospect of waking up tomorrow just to go to the drab office in which I work, of being undervalued and paid accordingly ... is not one I relish. I'm tired of ordinary things. Eating is an annoyance. Communicating is a chore. Sleep is my only solace and I won't even afford myself the courtesy of going there.
If there's a point in any of it, I've yet to discover it. I don't think anyone ever has. The world wouldn't be a war-ridden hellhole of poverty and oppression if we knew how to live according to any decent ideal. Humanity is a cancer and I'm just one of its cells.
And so are you.
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