The surf-lined coast. The plastic party people. The ‘industry’.
The metro area. The trash. The yawning, gaping chasm of humanity.
The metal, the mecca. The monster…
… becomes the juxaposition. The contrast. The ugly brilliance.
The smog that turns skies pink. The films that draw tears. The smoke shops that smell like incense and lies.
The complex cultural vomit, still worth picking through, somehow.
Sharp, dirty, gives a scrape. Suffocates the grass & flowers. Looms, without green. Puts everything on greyscale. Covers life with coarse gravel.
So unearthly. So wrong.
Sluiced, perfected, culled from stone. Creates a canvas—a blank slate—an easel, ripe for ideas.
So barren. So bone-dry. So ready to be cast into something new.
Degrading, disgusting, corrupting. Insulting to women. Only losers watch porn. Only freaks. Because sex is—
Who told you this?
Your arrogant mother?
Your sterile college professor?
Your own guilty conscience?
Sex existed before you were born,
And you were born because sex exists.
Let it go.
Will kill you, melt you like a wicked witch, make you smell, whatever.
Cancerous and evil. Regretful. Full of deception.
But that smoke is still there. It’s a sign. A smoke-signal of sexy.
How about viewing it as vibrant symbolism rather than an axe on your health?
At least you know where to stand.
Unhealthy, sad, a sign of insanity.
Something worth being condemned to, even –
‘Go to your room!’
And yet… there is silence, a certain peace, a space to fill with thoughts. Somewhere worth sitting back, just to take a second.
There is silence.
Always question your beliefs.
It will keep you on your toes.