When a facebook post triggers a twilight of thoughts that a year in philosophy couldn’t, odds are something’s wrong. Or something’s quite right. Forget your ordinary photo upload entangled on shameless self promotion of every gaga infused euro-teen micro-pop-star that relies on social networking and a low-width brain connection to actually live; forget the parties’ coverage; forget Leigh Lezark updates that let you know she’s currently DJeing at Chanel Resort Party to actually pay for her supper. Forget how desperately you’ve been clicking for those news feed refresh hoping it ends up refreshing your boredom or for the likes who have it, your brain. Forget all that gifted crap: yesterday there was a quite low-profile Swedish hottie who turned up to Facebook to change my Status. He said: We avoid risks in life to make it safely to death. Two minutes after, I was a married bitch. (the latter being untrue)
Focus: We avoid risks in life to make it safely to death. And there it was: my life criteria typed onto perfect succinct aesthetics summed to realize that all this time I’ve been avoiding death. Every prejudice, every single social disease was created for us to follow death’s path in an inverted mockery game. We are going to die, and this inherited inability to face it up front leads an outgrowing tendency to avoid such fate in a fashionable denial manner. How? Pretending our actions are eternal flames. Presuming that each and every bit of worrying is core. Hence, we make safe bets. Everything is a safe bet; a safe path managed not to screw the much needed predictability of life. NEWSFLASH: the only thing you can predict is your dead corpse – Botox fillings included.
Is that so? So much for an unhappy ending?
Everyone’s doing the safe thing in order not to fuck up the safety net of social conduct and expectancy because it might trigger a curse or worse: unemployment or bankruptcy. Just last night, I was sitting in a fucking BMW for hours bubbling my best Kant’s to a green cat-eyed straight hottie with Mozart or whomever dead genius Mass recital playing along on the stereo – and I couldn’t place a bid. Oh my he was straight! But what the hell: 4am in the middle of nowhere allured by dense fog deserved at least, him going berserk-gay with a don’t-ask-don’t-tell-kiss-policy in that so called straight face. But I couldn’t, I want to make it safely to death. There was no kiss. There was no sweeter rip of. There was no Italian leather seat cum stain. Everything was clean and hygienic, moreover: controlled. No risky bet, no yummy bite.
That got me thinking. How much of me is a safety bet disguised in edgy skinny jeans and Owens shirts entangling a borrowed sense of non conformism? I’m the exact opposite of a risk taker: I’m the freak authority for a security department. Everything needs reviewing. Everything needs assuredness. Every word follows a justification. Not that it is a bad thing to rationalize, but why would one care so much for a safety land on a tacky coffin. In the end there’s no justifying death, thus no justifying life. Things are the way they are. Making the most of it, it’s a matter of boldness and a sense of lightness. What could go wrong? It’s not like I’m Brad Goreski’s brain trapped in Michele Obama’s jaw line. There’s a possibility.
I’m game.
Are you?
