Memoirs in Hatred of Immortality
We are chasing a feeling no different from the one we took for granted.
The DoorWay
The thought of going into a carefree life crosses everyone's mind at least once. Yet the place we wish for, disappointingly, turns out to be the same as the one we ran from.
Life and death arrive mutually; we can never get one without the other.
What if art, our doorway to immortality, was a womb? Which nurtures us only to spit us out. Demanding that we should become more on our own. Fragile and alone. We were doomed to die chasing a dream that was never ours.
How else would we make ourselves immortal in this matrix when we believe we must die first to be glorious? Would it be wrong to dream of living forever in the things we create: to curse others with the same spell cast upon us?
It seems all art has valuable confrontation, which asks if we are part of this tree or a bunch of birds sitting on an old dead tree from somewhere else.
No answer will be good enough, though. No life can be good enough. But does that mean we need more? Have we ever successfully stopped ourselves after getting more?
Chasing a high
Desiring immortality suggests this life can never be good enough for a drug, therefore, we need an endless supply to be satisfied.
Choosing to die quietly also says, "This life is not good enough, so we can afford to let it go."
Let it go?
Let it go with no remorse like an impotent lifelong partner whose kisses now taste like dry ash!
You don't have to accept it to be true: we deserve better, even if it kills us. So what if self-destruction is a constant in human behaviour? As long as we are here NOW. We will rage against the dying of the light in our own way. Something worthwhile may be around the corner…….or not.
Suicide
So death has been getting a more significant stake in this DIY culture.
Young black men forget that Jesus proved suicide is only excellent and holy if the resurrection is guaranteed.
Failure is death only if you choose it.
How many failed Samurai could have been great mentors to kids whose fathers died in battle? How was the poetic principle in their death more important than what they still had to offer?
Failure is death to those who chose it! You may be free, but we are at a loss.
The living are dead, and the dead are very much dead!
I wonder if we celebrated death, would suicide notes be considered art, maybe even win awards?
Success
- How do you know you are rich? When you no longer ask the question.
- How do you know you are poor? When you are always asking the question.
It's up to you to decide what the question is.
If your right-hand makes you sin, you should cut it off.
If my life is making me sin, what should I do? Choose a romantic death for it: Success!
The Quiet Orgasm
The more I try to bring order to my life, the more chaotic I become. The more I try to focus my thoughts, the more diffused I become.
A thought is never lonely, and it enslaves those who underestimate its companions.
Vulnerability ensues identification.
What's the reward of being a God who can't be seen?
To notice each other is to declare war, but art is the peace treaty we present to the world.
What if Shakespeare cared about being loved by Romeo? Would the masterpiece come to pass? Nonetheless, Romeo doesn't exist, but Shakespeare does. Trees don't stop growing because we hate their leaves. There never were any shared responsibilities. Why should you care if they hate what you love?
The universe wouldn't be fun if we knew all its secrets. Love and uncertainty sustain romance. And romance is like the child of promise: an orgasm predestined.
The incompleteness in our lust is what quietly completes our passion in the end.
The Aftertaste
What matters most before you die? Well…something does.
Perhaps we are chasing a feeling no different from the one we took for granted.
Three questions we should think to ask:
- What matters most to you after they die?
- What remains valuable after you waste a moment?
- What aftertaste did she leave in your mouth?
Love.
It's hardly the same, but the answer is not so different: An imperfect life full of fantasies about paradisiac perfection. The good, the bad, and the profane. Even these aftertastes leave aftertastes!
We conclude that art and life are nothing but aftertastes. You can't wish them away because there is always something else to replace them. Afterlives have afterlives!
When we dine, consistent surprises on a menu create our favourite restaurant. With enough meaningful moments, we get to live our best life.
You don't have to accept it to be true: we need testimonies that we were here, and the world got a taste of us.
Once upon a time, babies were an aftertaste of love. Civilization was an aftertaste of how we raped the world.
If experience and memory arrive mutually; what would the art you create be an aftertaste of?
