Sadboy Psyop

I must’ve listened to Feel The Illinoise! a thousand times. And while I fan through the hits of the 2000s and putter about, so much of it leaves a sound wispy and melancholic.

Collecting other indie albums and while I can appreciate the lyrics, even today, I find little sympathy now. Once I read a funny comment about Bright Eyes or these other artists and how it’s just poison, how it mutates your identity as something soft-spoken. And sad. It puzzles me why I listened so long.

Because being melancholic is a perverted form of narcissism, probably.

How many do you let speak on your behalf?

My ipod shuffle had so many artists trying to capture something… or at least channel all my impotent subconscious rage growing up. But when I fan through the albums nowadays, wonder about it, well what were they even saying on my behalf?

I don’t think they were saying anything. If anything I channeled all of my rage and let someone else take the stand; a stand they’ll use to further their own missions that channels more rage in me. Renders me into something inert and saddled on the side.

Nowadays one may carefully listen as though that’d deflect the subconscious absorption. Because I know all the artists can’t speak on my behalf, gear me up for their war. While I listen I all I hear is them asking me to wave their flag, push myself down for their story. And I’m done being strung to their tune, though if I am I want full reminder it’s their cause to chant.

There’s little redeeming about being soft-spoken, the way it’s mutated today to mean weakling. And there’s nothing redeeming about dragging along all of these proclivities dreaming of entrances and exits. Graduation disputes.

There is little to admire about the common interpretation of a “sensitive soul” disguising itself while venom leaks through each plea and hidden resentment. I want the souls which face rugged reality. You must not look away.

Where can I hear about power? Where can we stop dancing around the fact that containing violence is everything, even the passive-aggressive variants?

I don’t need your words, chants. Give me my inner barbarism and piles of bodies, of an inheritance by history.

Let’s wield it, as destiny. Set an orchestra to the bloodletting. I’d want nothing less than the rage of the ensemble; nothing bumbling, nothing restrained: let us imitate the fallen angels then, second deluge waiting. Maybe the Divine Love will agree it’s expressed, instead of stuffed with petty squabbles, relationship troubles.

While we kick the sand over the body land fill, flies gorging, I hope we can unveil that your suffering isn’t about its capacity, but its catalyst: tears to transform into tridents.

Into bouquets.