Bucket Robot Golden Man - by Benjamin Rivers
Prints available at Society6
People who quote themselves are stupid fucktards and need to kill them self ASAP
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| — | Me (via deadly-green-stench) |
Epiphany
For a couple of years or so, I have felt like I was much more introspective, inventive, and innovative during high school, especially when it came to my writing. I felt there was a lot more merit to the way I used my words, and only recently began to feel like I was slipping, or losing my touch.
I just read through my old deviantART, and realized how wrong I was.
Amid all of that god-fangled teenage anguish and angst(which looked to me like an eyesore for any one who had actually previously read through my work), words being overused and misused, and really just a scatterbrained jamboree of an adolescent girl who had nothing better to do with her time than sit on the computer all day, listen to Tool, and wallow in her dismally sheltered and uneventful life. Not that there is a problem with Tool or anything, I was just attempting to convey how comfortable I felt within my teenage angst during that time of my life.
I have finally seen and understood the extremely frail person I once was and then slightly less frail gal I still am. I mentally envisioned an elementary compare-contrast chart of the two me’s and also felt that maybe a lot of the anxiety that has weighed heavily upon me was because I was invariably attaching my current cognition to my old and dead cognition from high school, and I haven’t fully come to that idea until tonight.
I have spent years with the firm belief that I was doomed intellectually, when in fact I actually grew intellectually. I didn’t really start living until I turned 18 and have been doing nothing but reveling in these thrilling excursions and experiences with the most amazing and wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing in my entire life. People who I may FINALLY refer to as “friends” of mine. Friends never seemed tangible to me until the last few years, and some times I still find myself in complete shock with the fact that I’ve finally acquired them. I mean, I’m still quite introverted . . but, the unconscious alterations I’ve made with myself have been pretty enlightening.
I think 2012 will certainly be a year of change for me. I won’t hesitate to make any major declarations of change, for I don’t even know myself when they will approach me . . but, I know they’re a’comin’.
Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.
But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
