Art.
Some people are so fucked up that all they have is art. All they have is to be good at something, and to create something beautiful through their backward emotions that only they could have conceived of and produced.
Healthy people can't project things like that in quite the same way. They can be creative, and be good at it, but it won't hit you like a shovel on the back of your head, or like a blow from your drunken father. Sometimes I can look at art and it won't mean anything- it will be technically correct but it won't project a loneliness inherent in all people who hurt profoundly and in their own, irreproducible way.
When you're really fucked up, and all you have is art, you have to be good at it. You have to put everything into it, because you can't trust other things that are supposed to be fulfilling, like boyfriends or girlfriends or friends or cool apartments. If you do, in the morning you go into the bathroom after a cunt full of cock (and it could be the most sentimental cock in the world- it doesn't matter) and you look at the pores in your skin and grimace.
You're hungry and you feel sick and you don't know why you can't be close with anything. But at least if you can portray these emotions in a way that other people can share them... well then, that's a reason to live.
Healthy people can't project things like that in quite the same way. They can be creative, and be good at it, but it won't hit you like a shovel on the back of your head, or like a blow from your drunken father. Sometimes I can look at art and it won't mean anything- it will be technically correct but it won't project a loneliness inherent in all people who hurt profoundly and in their own, irreproducible way.
When you're really fucked up, and all you have is art, you have to be good at it. You have to put everything into it, because you can't trust other things that are supposed to be fulfilling, like boyfriends or girlfriends or friends or cool apartments. If you do, in the morning you go into the bathroom after a cunt full of cock (and it could be the most sentimental cock in the world- it doesn't matter) and you look at the pores in your skin and grimace.
You're hungry and you feel sick and you don't know why you can't be close with anything. But at least if you can portray these emotions in a way that other people can share them... well then, that's a reason to live.