Intentions

Listened to a rant about materialism, worship of money, that time is the most valuable resource, and, ahem, freedom of course. I couldn’t avoid it, as with everything I overhear. Sitting right next to me on the phone, out of every seat seemingly.

In a dreadful moment of wonder I was curious how often my rants transfigure to the same distance. You’re right next to them, but each sentence digs a ditch further. I know in their fury I could never get through to them; so it is in any discussion of any -isms. The eyes cloud over. Do you know what clouded eyes look like? It’d be nice to have opaque and marble.

Then I started to think about how a lot of discussions are interlaced rebuttals. Each comment as a scoop toward one’s own barracks. Why are we talking when we need to destroy each other?

It is the intention which makes someone feel lucid or raving. In this sense I have to concede that everything I do is raving, almost. Excusing myself from failure, actually.

Even if one could convince themselves they’re somewhat rational and not at all rabies it’s likely that you’re still perceived as nuts, just in your own flavor. Still the same product: who’s to say if I ever was different. How many more bottles must I drink, or amphetamines, cigs, arms cuts down or along the thighs, shaking and screaming with the Pitchfork exclusive band by the burn stains, or tie-dyed hair, jewelry, casual Tuesday night arsonry, before I could excuse myself…

It was a satisfactory moment of reflection. We’ll all continue to babble, so assured it’ll rewrite history and future. The tension with intentions --- the subtle play between wish and reality.

It’s probably why most writing leans toward memoir. Subconsciously you know how it’ll continue to play out. At least you can twist a nuance there and here, to leave glits of leafy gold between the maroon and navy. Anyone can take the tweezers if they want; just delete all the fluff.