That’s what mobilised me
Scrolled the tweets, listened to the NEETs. I fucking hate the pretentious signalling.
I’m liberal, but I can critique my own side, one says. I like this other content creator, we’re great pals, we make the greatest. Look at the stupidity of my opponents, encapsulated in pills of dumb celebrity shits. We’re the true skeptical community with the cocks of iron and the hats of straw. We yank and we pull, we read a paragraph on the wikipeds and make a 15-minute long video on subjects we just learned about. Like ADHD children.
Meanwhile, I summon wordpad in a fit of silent, itching rage. I feel compulsed to type out words – it’s less cathargic than writing out the flurry of emotions with a shaky hand in the dim night light – and the diarrhoea is consistent. My fingers move on their own, an odd energy puppets them with an alien, instinctual desire. It’s like ranting, my fingers dance in too fast a tempo, too fast for cohesion to keep up, it’s bound to spiral out and not make any sense once a step back is taken.
My phone is vibrating aggresively. Somebody wants my attention. My heart races, I haven’t ranted in a while. I like it. I’ve gone and done a thought for long about how I wanted to start that blog. To write out my ideas and perspectives on the fields of debates that the faux intellectual youtubers graze on.
Too harsh. They do do good stuff. But their messianic attitudes is getting to me. My Jante-complex is playing out, it’s ticking just above my left eye. My fingers twitch like insect legs. I have so much to say.
So much to say, but a numbness in my mind keeps it from slicing juicy shreds off the mango of wisdom. Uncontrollable.
Everything needs to be so fucking controllable. I control myself, I strive for it. My body, my learning, my budget. Yet I’ve come to learn that my emotions can’t be controlled – and I’m just letting them run their course. Like diarrhoea. Sometimes a huge fucking mess, sometimes I shit into the right appliances, and the ugly truth stays hidden from the rest of the world.
I guess I need a doctor.
So I type. I look up, it’s actually a nicely spaced text. I haven’t read it. Who looks into the toilet after the deed is done, anyway? Only narcissists and geniuses. I like to think that I’m neither.
Yet voices ask me to take a look once in a while, transcribe and archive the stream. Let it irrigate the parched fields, rather than flooding the cities.
What is there to lose, anyway? I dream of greatness through my own words and deeds, of legacy and progeny of thought. That requires exposure, after all. Maybe I am a narcissist. Maybe I just want my mirror image to be unfeasibly perfect.
I looked at the phone. Messages for me. It feels nice, sometimes. Brethren in soul and heart, they think about you. Seek you out.
Disarmament. I wanted to rant, right? About politics? About the media, the state of navelgazing, the constellations and planetary positionings on the western hemisphere? I really do. I have an extreme thirst for…attention, I suppose. Reciprocity.
It’s weird. I don’t like the spotlight, but I envy the airballoons and the bloated fucks on screen. They say a lot about nothing with empty authority, but at least they speak. They have a following. Cult-like, yes, but nevertheless real, actual people of the earth, with independent minds and thoughts and feelings, who look forward to their new releases and eat it raw.
I know that feeling, now that I found confidants. It feels good. It feels really good, that people absorb and digest, and grow because of your actions. That’s never been real to me. Or maybe it has, I just haven’t seen it happen in real-time.
I suppose it is very different with an online audience, represented through numbers and usernames, as opposed to real eyes, skin complexions and face gesticulation – bodies you can touch.
There isn’t really a reason for me to write this in English. I don’t see myself releasing this anywhere, to anyone – who could possible gain anything from such disjointed ramblings, written by a frantic tragedy?
English has always been my Latin. It’s the trigger that fires the ranting neurons behind the emotional cortex. I don’t feel in English, as I do in Danish. For many reasons. It helps that the flow of the sentences is much quicker, it doesn’t slog in the canals due to excessive punctuation and word combination that takes time and effort to unravel. It also means that poetry in English is shit. And that swearing is meaningless and without value. That’s probably extremely context-dependent, though. So that goes back nicely to my question – who the fuck would read this drivel, written by a non-native speaker who doesn’t understand the same cues and emotional discharge that’s conveyed through the language?
I have loved in English. I’ve loved for a long time in English. I grew up in it. But I wasn’t born in it. So my stake has always been ephemeral, temporary, and once the firefly is quashed, it fades back into black.
Blank. Parking brake, skid to a halt. It’s over.