It’s funny to write when you’re – at the very least – aware of the uselessness of language. When you’re aware of the arbitrariness of the categories we’ve established as true/natural. It’s funny to write when you’re aware that categories themselves are simplistic. Nonetheless, the same way it’s funny to write using language, it is also funny to think using language.
It sort of feels surreal that the tools I have to be are simplistic and arbitrary. The tools I have to individualize myself are unreal. It quite literally – hah! – feels surreal to be aware that all I think I am is a mere arbitrary amalgamation of unreal concepts and categories.
In fact, I would go as far as to say that surreal art is more real than realist art is. While realism tries to maintain and uphold our unreality, surrealism at least subverts it.
It’s just so funny to me that in order to be I have to believe that all that I am is a real thing. When in fact, I am nothing more than the rotting corpse of a once fluid existence, now fragmented and categorized by those who sought to eternalize themselves.
It’s just so funny that we seek to divide the flowing of life into phases and times as if to hold on to a temporal identity that no longer is. And of course, when this happens, it isn’t surprising that we value stagnation more than creation; consumption, and accumulation more than purposeful subsistence.
Fokalypsy 