I have two solutions for the curse of living. Take drugs and make art. People believe drug use is deplorable. They probably have a catalog of daily painkillers and blood regulators. But I’m not talking about the shit we’ll all have to take later, nor the chemicals stirred together in some junkies toilet. I’m talking about changing the way your brain processes information.
Art is our battered iron shield pressed hard against the crushing agony of existence. If it’s words, then you’ll find those that carry the wavelength of your voice. If it’s poured over the canvas, your brush stroke will be your boat in the pigment pond. If you simply roll a rock around your entire life, its edges will smooth and glow like God’s glass eye.
Love runs like the wax of a thin hot candle. Long lines and bright lights leave us crumbling like stale bread. We’re all seduced by faulty narrations, delusions, and passions; paradoxes—unthinkable parasites tunneling from ear to ear. We’re big bacteria, taking what’s here and converting it to something sustaining.