jaded

I want to be hopeful, No really I do, I want to feel grateful for everything, all the time.

I don’t want to be disgusted. I don’t want to be repulsed, who wants that? I fight the descent into hatred and regret, I fight it all the way, I don’t want to resent. I don’t want to carry leaden memories of my little superficial successes, and the massive failures that fill my mind slowly, as a trickle of grit into a mysteriously malaligned void. I’ve learned to accept it.

I think I know something, but say nothing. I read us like a book, but don’t want to believe I can get it so right, so accurately define this wrongness we indulge in.

I grit my teeth at night. I gnash and grind them into a special $600 resin mold my dentist made me.

This is a dead place. This is a meander through psychic graveyards. You in yours, me in mine, them in theirs, pretending we’re together.

Because look, we need each other, to make bread and drive buses and serve each other and calculate futures and transfer things and build stuff and advise and defend and keep company and fuck and amuse and cry with.

Look at me. I have a B.A .Comm in the arsed-fucked political sciences, a Master of Arts in making bullshit sound interesting, and a Diploma of Fine Arts ( FArts for short isn’t it) from the National Art School, which was in it’s East Sydney Tech phase back then, but was producing the greatest artists. Now it’s a wanky Degree course that churns out rebranded versions of the originals.

I studied under the best who are dead.

I want to be optimistic, inspiring, challenging.

I want to lift the veil, turn up the volume, and say something real.

I don’t want to be jaded.