don't take it personally

We are all glossy and kind of the same.

We all go to the same music festivals, we all spend evenings on Facebook speaking to people that disinterest us.

We are all the same brand of canned soup, warholians. We come from the same cereal box I suspect. Culture defined by country, money, status, lack-there-of.

We stare at these glossy images in magazines that were printed for our own very eyes, wishing for these things. Hey! Hey! This stuff, these "whimsical images" we fall in love with, they are here to get us spending our hard-earned wad of cash. (Note: there's no wad of cash. It's more like a short stack.) Perhaps not as dramatically so as I paint it, okay. I believe in art.

We all want the same things, it seems, in this new culture where the Internet makes things accessible to a point of pattern. The lateral thinkers (there are still plenty of them, but they are obscure as hell and usually have no credit to text back) will seek other places, create the "new indie", open ground to the underground, to some mishapen idea, buy old children Encyclopedias, touch things we haven't touched in years. They trendset - mainly, I suspect, because they're bored as hell. Until this new stuff becomes common ground and kitsch. And once it's been used, restored into the commonplace, it becomes bland and pastiche again. But I suspect there's a use to pop as much as there is a place to subvert it. It's a cycle. Being self-conscious about it probably just makes things a hell of a lot worse.

But still. We all listen to the same music, and we are all becoming more or less branded, bland, the same. Everyone knows where to go; it's a democratic concept but one that opens ground to becoming complacent with whatever the latest fad. If people would at least contribute! If people would stop absorbing like dry sponges. The goal is to be moist, as gross as that may sound. Retain some kind of brain-water - brainwave!

But no. There's this thing, and it's called life ethic (or something else no one will be ever bothered to assign a name), a kind of view on life. And I have realised, from two weeks spent with a hard-worker - a detached, introspective, hilarious kind-of guy - that what I think is the absolute truth is very far from the absolute truth. And really, dreamers never live indeed: they just dream and float and forget, awash in the current like water itself, unaware that they are in fact sponges, and not the substance that permeates them.

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