October 23, 2005

• Hello Operator? This is Life.  Fine, I’ll hold.

  
  

   

  
  

  Today God called to tell me to stop making fun of him.  “You just don’t know when to quit,” He explained in his booming voice, “First you diss the Ten Commandments, then Passover, now you’re making references to Satan in practically every entry.  Well let me tell you something, you witless asshole, you may not believe in Hell, but by golly that’s where you’re going.  Besides, every time you post a new entry, a kitten dies.”

  
  

   

  
  

  I have never taken my religion seriously.  

  
  

   

  
  

  It could be because I tend to fall asleep during services on the high holidays.  It might be because I always seem to forget the meaning of family dinners, incapable of looking past the millions of sharp, red-manicured fingernails that pinch my cheeks and exclaim “The last time I saw you, you were THIS big” incessantly.  Or it could just be because, you know, I can't always see the love in the world.

  
  

   

  
  

  “What you need is a big hug, right guys?!” Barney gushed to me a few minutes ago, “There must be some love somewhere in that heart of yours!  I love you!!  You love me! Huhhuhuhuh!”

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

  
  

  Shut up, Barney, you’re fat, purple, and we all know you’re addicted to nicotine.

  
  

   

  
  

  I believe I have no faith in love.  I mean, how can I?  How can I when there seems to be a scientific explanation for everything? How can I when I know that, eventually, the things that seem impossible to explain will transform into hypothesizes, which, if lucky, may turn into theories, printed in textbooks, distributed to every wondering mind around the world?  How can I when everything seems to be a made out of concrete facts and rules and equations, when everything is a slave to time, when nothing seems to truly have any deeper meaning?

  
  

   

  
  

  According to Biology, my brown hair is not mine.  Actually, it’s my mom’s.  No one knows that though because she dyed it blonde at least a decade ago.  My eyes really aren’t mine, either, but my grandma’s.  My chin, in fact, belongs to my dad.  And my entire personality, my entire soul, my entire being, well, that’s all split up into hereditary fractions as well.  Who am I?  A social security number.  What does my future depend on?  My grade point average.  What is happiness?  Endorphines.  What is love?  A chemical reaction.  It seems that the second mankind started, the entire purpose of life was to ask questions and spend the rest of our lives uncovering the answers.  First it was the wheel, then the wagon, then electricity, the car, the computer, the video freaking iPod.  What, exactly, is it that we are accomplishing besides making life easier, besides making our brains fried lumps of mechanical thinking?  We have accomplished so much, but it just makes me wonder.  Is it all worth it?  Is it worth it to be intelligent and unhappy, living life without a true faith in anything?  Or should it just all fall to crap?  Is it better to live life ignorantly but satisfied, happily, lovingly?  Is it better to be unaware of the ugliness of the world?

  
  

   

  
  

  Maybe if that were the case I’d have faith in its beauty, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so jaded.

  
  

   

  
  

  The strange thing about me is that I spend my life painting pictures.  Whether it’s with my words or my paintbrush, whether I’m listening to music or attempting to dance, there is no doubt in my mind that I was put on this earth to be an artist.  Artists are romantics.  They capture the emotion, the beauty, the ugliness of the world and express it in their own way.  Being an artist isn’t a job that requires very specific regulations and characteristics. It’s actually the complete opposite.  You don’t need the beret; you don’t need the fancy portfolios and cups of black coffee.  You don’t have to be anti-social and creepily unique.  All you really need is the ability to vent out whatever inspires you in a creative way that you feel expresses what you have to say accurately. 

  
  

   

  
  

  It’s comforting to know that artists have the potential to bring beauty back into the world.  It’s nice to know a little painting, a short story, a simple song can give someone faith in something other than scientific theories and numbers.  It’s a great feeling, knowing that love, although stomped on by the harsh realities of life, is forever present, even when you think it’s left you for dead inside. 

  
  

   

  
  

  During times like these, living in a state of mind just as hopeless and pessimistic as my own, it seems almost impossible to go through an entire day without crying in a closet and listening to ridiculously depressing emo music.  And despite the fact that I’m merely a moody teenager whose naïve words might as well be disregarded, I do know that, although it may get nasty, you shouldn’t go through life purposely avoiding answers.  Answers may be disappointing.  Answers may be so right, so ugly, so blatantly obvious that you just want to slap 2+2 in the face so that it will never, no matter how hard it tries, equal four again.  Nonetheless, answers are accomplishments, answers are the truth.  By hiding from that, running away from knowledge and reality, we aren’t even fooling ourselves into being happy.  What we have to do is face those truths, those disgusting equations, those hereditary fractions, those endorphins.  What we have to do is turn around and face them, accept their existence, size them up, and if we feel so bold, give those damn realities The Finger. 

  
  

   

  
  

  We are worth so much more than numbers.  I can feel it when it’s been a long day and something makes me laugh.  I can understand it when I hear my favorite song, disregarding the instruments, the notes, the band members, and merely appreciating it for the beauty it portrays. I can smell it in the fall, forgetting that the crispness of the air is the foreshadowing of shorter days to come.  There really is beauty in the world, sometimes we just have to tell reality to back off in order to welcome its presence.

  
  

   

  
  

  As for God?  Well, I’m not so sure.  Until then I’ll just continue making unnecessary references to Satan.

  
  

   

  
  

  

  • 9:13 pm
  • 18 Comments