After Seeing Margot at the Wedding(an introspection)

I've practically almost become an artist. I think quite introspectively on most occasions, and I'm very confident that my personal relationships and intimate relationships are very passive and erudite. It's as if I in my solitudinous rambling through life, walking and speaking, thinking and becoming a person, someone that I like or dislike regularly, I, merely encounter people in skits, like my interactions are just vignettes I attend in order to get back to myself. As if, I, were the only one whom was most important, and with some interactions I find myself totally eclipsed, embedded with others, and some other communications, alterations, integrations have become a mere way of building up hours and minutes to get back to a state of elongated introspection.

My life has the characters, and I was for so long fixated on developing the characters, but now they've all gestated on themselves. There are the women and the men, those girls with whom I went to high school with, some of them whom I quite enjoyed the pulchritudinous aesthetic of sitting next to in class, those whom I thought were aloof, and those whom I spent a bit of time with but always wanted something more of a relationship with other girls more. And of those there are even there evolutionary selves, the way they look today is something to reason with, everyone is becoming more equal now, like a beautiful plane of melancholy and understanding, everyone has developed into a sort of box, sometimes the lid is open for reasoning or compassion, it's envelope slit takes the time out to participate in life and other times it's totally closed off, and no amount of meddling can even get a response out of it. There are those girls whom are in college, who are getting laid less now, than when boys were curious back in under-education playing doctor or investigating what fooling around was like, there the girls who just want the romance, hopeless romantics not, but more tragic romantics, always searching, not for the boy that will make them okay, but for the same boy that left them, that they left, that is always more or less leaving them, and you encounter these girls, and they flirt or give you their number, even maybe will play around with you mentally, articulating conversations and allowing you to get to know them, but they are always telling you about their desires, asking you what "he" would like, and the self is becoming an object of integration, like a metaphor for magnetically dissattraction, the humanity of a person completely absolved into someone elses losses or distractions.

There are the girls who were totally neglected as children, whose fathers had little interaction with them as children, who find fucking to be a way to ignore their parents needs for their success, they find comfort in drugs and books, the theater and the gay makeout partner. They dress very accurately to the model you won't find in a Cosmo, but rather the newest fashion trend and the latest Romance novel syndicated by a book entitled "The Manual". There are of course also those women with which no category could be entailed, they are of course the least comprehended by men and their friends. And we as men love them, because it's what we do, we remember stupid little things, like the way they prepare themselves for bed or the way they talk to their mothers, their driving habits, and how long they brush their teeth for, and we're constantly always looking for them, our mother, our last and first loves, are reason to be, and comprehend ourselves.

The more we distance ourselves from our own introspective channeling of enertia, desires, copulation with the world through media or nature, our intense virile constraints for the evolution of man, the way that we feel boldly abhorred in the contemplative expierence, constantly striving for a relationship. And though we don't masturbate in front of our mothers or walk around naked in our homes, although puerile we did when we were younger in alternative forms, now we just stay almost completely impotent in ourselves. And I have become a true form of this, I totally see all the possibilities, and I'm so terribly afraid to just wrap the scarf around my neck and love the snow flakes falling down on the black wool jacket I'm wearing out, and just go for a girl with long hair and a porcelain face who doesn't shave her pubic hair and is just a woman. I have a thing for women. I like all of it. Most of all I like the principal behind sexuality, humanity, compassion. It's all very in-exclusive, and I can no longer carry a guillitine of shame around with me like a wallet-sized accessory to cut down others.

There are the men of our lives, so elusive and aloof, drug binging and fashion idolized, constantly seeking for fame and power, and what does this power bring about more distance and dis-substance from relationships and communications. Our nature totally obstinate of introspection anymore, we terrorize others and judge, and for what, to be further removed from any relationship that had a plausibility of a construct that we could be connected.

So keeping the fluorescent idle lights of blue in the bedroom and painting and writing, speaking in the argots of arrogance and pooling together friendships, relationships, loved ones, and moving towards a universal compassion a construct for unity through exclusiveness, sitting in the foyer, visitng all the rooms, but constantly being a greeter, and returning only to ourselves for a feeling that being sought is more worthwhile than seeking. And I execute days by attending films that I can identify with. Totally compassionate, totally independant relevant and identifiable. I can identify finally. And though perhaps this a fleeting moment, a present for the chance to feel connected to myself, nature, and the past. Whatever the nature of my nurture to myself, bridling on the reins of today, and keeping together with those that I understand to be highly developed, an interior of a world without constraint of tongue to lung, and spoken out loud between friends on caffeine drips and across town on cell phone lines. Connected, ha! Like a free-basing of expierence, honesty, and a convivial sense of being a part of. No matter who. Even if I understand the whys, and understand the distance. Here and now, for everyone, here and now, we all will be walking under the same snow.