I’ve never really desired money, nor till this point of my life. The very point of earning is happiness and survival, I’m clear with my idea of happiness, I have an alternative way of being… The survival part is what kills me…
“I would hope for people to cheer when they kill me.” Be there before seconds when the ground below me vanishes, I’ll skip into melancholia, truly timeless seconds between life and death. Stumbling on the middle street where they execute me, kill every part of me. I was never enough for the world nor this world is enough for me. Before I close my eyes, before I go into the abyss, The last thing I would wish to see, is a car. Running through the streets killing everyone, or the idea of everyone. But the car was slow and as the wind went by, I died a poetic death.
The idea of earning money is wildly overrated… a cliché enough to make you part of a society, a vivid society that you would want to impress. The playful act is grotesque enough for everyone. Boys and men with chafed-up bodies would not know anything about their culture, but if you kill these boys and men, and open up their bodies, dissect their memories, the scenery that you would gaze at would be of them desiring little things. Their memories would consist of respective trauma and guilt. These people would not understand the world as I do, why are they so narcissistic? I would think so little of these disgusting foolish people, but again I even think disgustingly little of me, how am I really different from these people?
To tell a story about disgusting people, you must insist that you are not disgusting. I would always fail on that part. These sentences are ironical because they are completely contradicting, what I want to be, what I need to be, and what I must be. My ideal way of living in the world is being contradicted by how the world runs, and I must run with it. I would often wish to keep writing and keep watching, and consuming films and art. I would tell people that I don’t desire money, that I don’t want money… but is ‘Want’ really the question? Won’t I ‘need’ money?
My love for arts is the only reason for my non-desirable thinking towards money, I’m sure it is not because of my vanity, but I was rich growing up, it formed my idea of money, I used to think, that is the only reason why I don’t desire money, but then again growing up my family had been rich and poor and I never cared for it in whatever socio-economic condition my family would be. The happiness that I gather after completing a poem, after reading a poem, after surrendering myself to art would be the purest form of feeling, I pity people who can’t be passionately in love with art, who can’t be passionately in love with anything. That’s why these people would desire money… I don’t think that’s wrong; I just can’t see myself living that miserably, living without being in love, it was never really about those small motherfuckers who would want money, who just want money. It was always about me, my narcissism and my idea of the world, my idea of love, and me.
The architectural thesis of my being is formed in that way, often I would wake up in sheer disgust of humans, I would hate them. I would intellectually desire to attack their modern life pillars, systematically. My hate towards them and money is an ironical paradox, my wish for people to be selfless and not desire money is in itself a core formula to my narcissism, wanting for them to commit ego suicide and create a society that fulfills my inner void… I am not in any sense the same as these people…I’m just trying very hard to be.
“To be or not to be, that is the question” William Shakespeare
My extreme obsession with art, literature, and films, must be a product of the consequences of my being. My analogy of humans and their unifying erotic desire for money is so disgusting, it’s not their intellectual disability to understand the complexes of life…It might be, it’s disgusting because there is not a portion of lie in my analogy. The equanimity in the face of society…The capitalist framework in which their bodies work. This is the apotheosis of capitalism. But all that I think, goes into oblivion as I see the car pass down the road, killing humans, or the idea of humans…The rope is around my neck, I don’t die a poetic death, all that is left of me is my narcissism.
