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8.31.98 Cement
Too many love songs. Too many romances. No more heroes. Cold and numb, the reality of my existence. The city knows. It fosters the deflation of interaction in its inhuman rhythms. It holds us inches from touch and mocks our loneliness. The herd drinks toward foolishness and the rebellious sit on the periphery defying hate. The rebellious do not vomit up the putrid acts of love in their working. The unanswering approach sanity as the unquestioning drown in sex. Too many romances: what is love? Episode 1:
Girl gets guy Episode 3: Girl gets pregnant Episode 4: show is cancelled, baby actor loses contract. Where are the fathers? Love is proactive and marriage is an institution but, of course, that is all so close minded. This is the future. We live numb, our my kept from our selves. These selves cannot be trusted, they will steal, injure, murder. You can love them but do not touch them. This is the future. - You're here and I am speaking in your mind but I don't know you. This is the internet - You can't trust myself because my is splintered from self. You accept this my while keeping this glass between touch. Guilty architecture. It defends us from touch, keeps out those fathers from teaching their children about the censored edicts of prejudice. Guilty - It kills our heros. I know the cement is real somehow although they tell me to question it. They tell me to question the cement and obey the government. This government, that does not obey itself, holds me in fear from behind the glass. It finds its power in its lack of self to define therefore circumventing responsibility. This is the future, too many love songs. We are no more. Fears rises when my ventures outside the glass and rejoins self in the midnight streets of urban reality. Preface: In being consumed with definition and in acting upon obsession imagination is misused. Drowning in questions we choke on the absence of answers while being pulled ever deeper by the insanity of our definitive logical sphere. I know that the cement is real for as I question it with my body it always gives a truthful reply. I have forfeited my femininity and forsaken love but I cannot deny the street for it will not be redefined. And this is the future. Now. Gabriel Chapman, 1998 |
