Pessimism
Root
I sit in disbelief. I hammer healing
in a sense where it’s hard to believe myself. I’ve been tugged by a force,
haunted by a gaze, where a face presses through wires. I’ve been hiding or scavenging
or passive about my locating. Listening or loosening or concerned about what
two people bring to a picnic. I might mingle with malaise, this heavy type of
healing, while asserting true dysfunction evolves into an unsteady, but
internally cogent type of order. It’s a claim, indeed. One where internality is
of more value, impression, or appeal than outer sprinklers.
A mind will grin as it peruses
passions where memories are like math. So much in his present some fracture in
his past—where schematics are like stigmata. A man from his begging as a
creature to its survival, where we don’t wish to berate a person, as core facts
sit in decent people. We know to be gentle. We understand things that might
prove risqué. And we agree children are precious.
I try to regather many facts. I try
to see a person instead of that person’s affliction. This is a harder equation.
In order to understand a person, we must include what we know about that
person, and this requires a certain title, a label, something guaranteeing
identity. So, a person might have several titles or labels: philosopher,
psychologist, psychiatrist, or professor. We’ve other titles or labels: addict,
bipolar, ex-convict, dealer, or schizophrenic—and so forth. Each title or label
serves as a mental picture where a compass, gauges our behaviors. We don’t
intend to label, but this becomes a part of our social functionality. Lastly,
most prize their title. While dysfunction is an energy many persons are hiding
and disguising.
We’ve created something in our
society—the assertion, where people are granted an opportunity to redeem an old
character, where one suffered from socio-economic alienation. We see it played
out in a family dynamic, where, as we say, a certain member was haunted by
demons. This person may go to rehab, rebuild, and be given a chance to
restructure old beliefs. It’s unfortunate, but we classify cultures, or accept
people based upon their social class, where Avenue of The Stars means
reception, while anything denoting Projects is denounced and denigrated, or
tolerated through uneasiness. We seem to know what we wish to associate with,
and the why of the matter.
There’s a root as it forms where
fear frightens acceptance. More importantly, one attached to aches and pains,
be it mentally, socially, or both, will form habits others deem as antisocial,
abnormal, or disheartening. We include here, most artists are solo creatures. I
don’t know if this is a form of being antisocial, but we might agree it
requires some attention, especially, if it redeems a given character. But most
are carrying a shark, a shiv, an emotional piece of damaged glass—those shards
or skillets where reality is heavy. Something might be in our bones, some
chilling cave, some deep misery we draw from, or our right to assert ourselves.
I’ve not found it in this piece. I’ve
not asked it of many. The reality of welts, or wailings, or wriggles in an atmosphere
where perfection becomes our countenance. How do we address a certain reality
threshing our minds and social conditions? How, if necessary, do we congratulate
differences—if not, how do we justify alienation? Most importantly, must we
include a person where our sociality seems to cause strong contradiction with
theirs?
