You and I, we’re not so different.
Here we are sitting relatively trapped in whatever four walls we can find, albeit one of mine is broken.
You ever wondered what it’s like to live in between the lines, between the pages of text written by a sociopathic narcissist? I think you know what it’s like more than you’d care to admit.
Sorry, that’s a bit abrupt. What I am basically trying to say is that you and I, we’re not so different.
For me it looks like a canvas of pure white with little letter shaped holes poking through allowing me to see you, word by word. Weird right?
For you it’s probably a bit different. It’s probably a little house filled with pages of people looking back at you. You’ve got photo albums. You’ve got little softcover books written by a mixture of racists and not. If this were written about 30 years ago, somebody in your house would probably have pornographic magazines hidden underneath their bed, full of women looking back at them, unbelievably happy to be showing off their breasts. Or so they are trying to appear. And now, you have me, looking back at you, not showing you my breasts because I am a seventeen year old boy. Nonetheless I am exposed to you and I am equally embarrassed.
But where are the little letter shaped holes for you? You have windows to the outside I guess, but that’s pretty boring and doesn’t make for good metaphor filled prose. Does it?
No, the letter shaped holes that most folks tend to see kind of vary from person to person. Some people see themselves in old stories that tell of miracles and saints. And some people see themselves in things other than Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography. Humanity exists through the lens of characters and stories. And maybe you’ll read this and you’ll see yourself through these letter shaped holes. Even if you’re not a seventeen year old boy.
The reason I’m telling you of all my weird hypotheses on the nature of humanity is twofold. First of all I am incredibly bored and somewhat trapped in this ever expanding, yet ever dull piece of written bullshit.
More importantly though is that I want you to burn all of your books. All of them. I refuse to believe that any of them have the exact same story as you. For the sake of conformity, burn all of your books.
You are your own person right? Prove it. Write your own books. You can do better than whatever young adult bullshit has been crammed down your throat. Are you forced to kill children? No? Then why would you want to read such miserable stuff.
Burn your books. It’ll make the house nice and warm too.
Thank you for listening.