A twenty minute train ride is what currently separates me from those who would have me hang for my unique brand of taste. I have never claimed to hold fast to a standard, for that would mean that I believe that what I like should dictate what others like, and although many of my antagonists speak of such things as "subjectivity" and "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", never has a group reacted so quickly as to make a man blind. It is one thing to be vociferous about one's taste, and the tastes of others, it is another thing entirely to impose restriction, to administer punishment. What I am speaking of is my place of work, an environment that rests in the shadow of high school so well that it is completely indiscernible from it. My clocking in might as well be the first bell ushering me into class, and while my work may be absent of lessons and homework, the immature stink of childish ridicule and glorified bullying permeates through the air like a fog that blinds any of the herd residing comfortably within from seeing one's true nature: that one is actually other, and that "I think" is really "they think". No one voice stands out, but simply comes in a chorus led by a ghostly instructor who leads mass with notes made salient by history. How does one swim in waters dictated by piranhas? Perhaps that answer is simple: one dances.
What response is so great as to overcome the herd? No response at all, for to respond to the actions of the they is to be both ruled by them, and pulled into petty attempts to rule. For while I may be offered hate, I offer nothing in return, because the gift of hate can only be wrapped back up and returned: the herd play teeter-tooter, eagerly awaiting for the other to push. Let silence rest between those who have nothing to offer each other, extending the gap so as to better enable one to become one's own master. For where one cannot love, pass on. And may the critic been seen as one who offers up a fairy tale, like Seuss, and the Brothers Grimm before him. Let the critic be one who spins webs with words, who indicates passionate engagement to the children gathered around the fireside. Let not the critic's story be taken as truth, but instead another story amongst stories; what enemy of fiction takes the word as reality? There are no Christian artists.
When the they is intimidated by the story of another, this is interpreted as an act of war, the most potent method to redeem the man in humanity. This is a certain kind of sickness, orchestrated by that ghostly instructor whose utterances carry the sound of history, and all the they can do is sing by reiteration, a practice saturated by utility and bad faith. The employee herd seeks to hammer any protruding nails by offering up great ridicule against the critic. May they know truth by agreement, and shout down one who might not like what everyone else likes. All poetry aside, an absurd proposition, my place of work is high school all over again in which I am punished for difference, made to suffer because of criticism, labeled as "negative", an act, ironically enough, that negates me. Let me not be a mystery to anyone, oh no, for the they is still caught up in stories of monsters in the shadows; no longer stories as all! They much rather have me brought into the light of truth, where all are objects, such as a dart board, and labels, like darts, stick; every hit is a bulls-eye. This light of truth that the they bathes in, can only have that which does not change as its object, and while it is persons who change, the they stamps out any alterations that may occur in time by its labeling, and in doing so, the person is stamped out as well. And while I may pronounce "love is a myth", all those who would claim to disagree come to agree by action. How could I speak such things amongst a group that shouts dirty jokes, and childish puns? What right have I to speak in a hue so very opposed to the gray disposition of diaper laden mortals? Speak the same or speak not at all; is this what it is to be nice? All one need say is that "dubstep is not music", and instantly the insults fly, as though a proposition had jumped out from the bushes posing as truth. Again with this talk of truth, such a spiteful disease it is for it makes most resentment justified. So long as one has one's eye on the truth, as if there existed such a thing, then one is able to administer its brother on people: "you are false my good sir!"
Truth's dagger has always been "False!", made to do its dirty work so as to allow for the trumpeters of victory to have air. My coworkers are stab-happy! Can any amount of armor save me? Can one pass by quickly enough? Tomorrow I will find out, and not only tomorrow, but the day after that, and so on: one must imagine Nemo happy. "Dubstep is not music you say, yes, say?! Let me sharpen my knife! Let no one speak against me indirectly (if at all)! Yes, beauty is subjective, but insofar as it does not disagree!" I will not lie, the music of others I usually meet with distaste, but would I forbid them to listen? No. I am no one's master, and I do not seek to drop blood in the water. I am merely a storyteller, doing my best to dance. How to deal with children? Let them cry to themselves. And if they should whip out their blades, what then? Quickly pass by, for as it was the fate of Lestat, do not drink the blood of the dead, for death will bring it down with you. Speak not to the infants, for what words can ever hope to penetrate the fortress of They?
When the they is intimidated by the story of another, this is interpreted as an act of war, the most potent method to redeem the man in humanity. This is a certain kind of sickness, orchestrated by that ghostly instructor whose utterances carry the sound of history, and all the they can do is sing by reiteration, a practice saturated by utility and bad faith. The employee herd seeks to hammer any protruding nails by offering up great ridicule against the critic. May they know truth by agreement, and shout down one who might not like what everyone else likes. All poetry aside, an absurd proposition, my place of work is high school all over again in which I am punished for difference, made to suffer because of criticism, labeled as "negative", an act, ironically enough, that negates me. Let me not be a mystery to anyone, oh no, for the they is still caught up in stories of monsters in the shadows; no longer stories as all! They much rather have me brought into the light of truth, where all are objects, such as a dart board, and labels, like darts, stick; every hit is a bulls-eye. This light of truth that the they bathes in, can only have that which does not change as its object, and while it is persons who change, the they stamps out any alterations that may occur in time by its labeling, and in doing so, the person is stamped out as well. And while I may pronounce "love is a myth", all those who would claim to disagree come to agree by action. How could I speak such things amongst a group that shouts dirty jokes, and childish puns? What right have I to speak in a hue so very opposed to the gray disposition of diaper laden mortals? Speak the same or speak not at all; is this what it is to be nice? All one need say is that "dubstep is not music", and instantly the insults fly, as though a proposition had jumped out from the bushes posing as truth. Again with this talk of truth, such a spiteful disease it is for it makes most resentment justified. So long as one has one's eye on the truth, as if there existed such a thing, then one is able to administer its brother on people: "you are false my good sir!"
Truth's dagger has always been "False!", made to do its dirty work so as to allow for the trumpeters of victory to have air. My coworkers are stab-happy! Can any amount of armor save me? Can one pass by quickly enough? Tomorrow I will find out, and not only tomorrow, but the day after that, and so on: one must imagine Nemo happy. "Dubstep is not music you say, yes, say?! Let me sharpen my knife! Let no one speak against me indirectly (if at all)! Yes, beauty is subjective, but insofar as it does not disagree!" I will not lie, the music of others I usually meet with distaste, but would I forbid them to listen? No. I am no one's master, and I do not seek to drop blood in the water. I am merely a storyteller, doing my best to dance. How to deal with children? Let them cry to themselves. And if they should whip out their blades, what then? Quickly pass by, for as it was the fate of Lestat, do not drink the blood of the dead, for death will bring it down with you. Speak not to the infants, for what words can ever hope to penetrate the fortress of They?
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