I’m Writing A Book

A particularly strange occurrence occurred to me… that this strange occurrence was not normal.

In other words, I have something to say that cannot be succinctly described in a single blog post.  Nor can it be explained in a journal entry that I can tuck away into that little neglected book by my bed.  Nor can it be verbally explained to a close friend in under an hour.  Not even if I type lightning-fast, as I often do.  No no, my fingers are only so deft.

Let’s just say, something happened, that broke the camel’s back.  The straw, as it were… when it touched my buckling shoulders, it not only made me realize that I had had enough… it made me realize that I am a freaking camel.

This is a metaphor, but I am trying to illustrate a point.  Sometimes, the person you are, or the person you think you are, is not at all who you really are.  Or… it is not at all who other people perceive you to be.

For years, I’ve been downplaying myself, all in the name of “humility.”  Let’s call it it’s real name: self-deprecation.  Or rather: self-hatred.  “I’m sorry” here, “I’m sorry” there.  Oh, I’m sorry, I tripped over a woman’s foot on my way out of the toilet.  I’m sorry, the woman who shined my shoes at the train station starts huffing when I tell her she made my shoes too shiny.  Poor her, and her two extra wasted minutes… and her half-assed attempt to… to do what?

This is why I need to write a book.  Not for you, not for me, not for the woman.  But because for some freaking reason, that is beyond what we know.  All of us.  I think… I’m writing it for the reason of intelligence.

Intelligence is fading away, because no one sees it in their waking lives.  And… shreds of it still exist, in some of our minds.  It might be as dim as a feeble candle, it might be non-existent in others, and still others, it’s a freaking super nova covered by an opaque lampshade.  Sadly, we are now all encouraged to wear lampshades, as it is the fashion.  I speak metaphorically, and yet many soon might be too dumb to differentiate between a lampshade and reality.  We do talk of virtual reality helmets as the next wave of video game consoles at times, don’t we?

In any case, I also have an arrogant realization to make:  I’m brilliant.  And I’m tired of down-playing it so that others can feel like I’m their friend and equal.  Because I’m not.  As a preschooler, my favorite melodies were Christmas carols, and I’d sing them all year.  Pop songs were unstimulating baby songs, in comparison.  It only got worse as I became an educated, classical musician.  Pop music made no sense.  Even today, I have trouble remembering this pop song from the other because it all sounds the same.  It all sounds like baby music, with dry, empty lyrics that feature no poetic artistry or character.

There’s more to say, but I’m tired.  I’m starting my book.  I’m going to write it, because I want you, or whoever reads it, to really look within themself and recognize that little shred of intelligence that remains, and really water it.  Give it sunlight, and allow it to grow.  Because if we allow our intellects to flower and go where they will, as does ivy along a wall… we will have freedom to direct our lives where we want them to go.  As of now, we have not this freedom.  It lies trapped.  It is covered by an iPad.  It is covered by Kim Kardashian’s ass.  It’s covered by the fragrance of money.

We need to stop this crap.  We need to stop trying to be popular and famous.  Whether it’s in your first grade class at the lunchroom table, or if it’s about becoming the star of the next viral video online… we need to learn that there is more to life.

That’s why I’m writing this book.  And now I’m tired.  I’m going to bed, right after I drink my fucking diet soda.


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