I actually have watcher(s). Plural! So I figure I should at least ... watch what I say or something. This is something that I put together for my last art assignment. I wasn't particularly satisfied with the way the project itself turned out, but I didn't quite mind the emo-prose that I composed.

God. I hate tagging things as emo.

~~~

We live amidst Adorno's culture industry, buried neck-deep in mass-marketed, mass-generated, mass-produced ideas, icons, logos and souls.

Anxiously, we listen as the professor lectures about our supply and our demands. Money. Monopoly. Monsters. Our world is being politely, but inevitably devoured by the Freudian forces of abstract domination.

Our parents wish upon us future happiness. We wish merely for good luck in the fleeting moments of the here and now. The present runs from us at a rapid pace, and we cannot hope to pursue for the sake of both our real and imagined pasts.

These are not the truths that we are looking for, but certainly these are the truths that are offered. Take 'em or leave 'em, but they envelop us quietly and threaten to smother without our ever being aware of it.

We search for our freedoms, casually, yet cautiously for fear of lost hope and lost loves. But the end is inescapable and we find ourselves trapped in the basement of our hearts, breathing our last goodbyes like warm gasps in the deepest of winters.

Let us stand upon this rickety old boat in the middle of the vast vast ocean and wave our slow farewells to the sinking obsolescent cities in which we grew up.

Let us sit upon the mountains of sand in the desolate, deserted desert and spin like pinwheels against the invisible swelling winds of our own regrets.

Count aloud the things we miss and we should either count forever or never at all. Pick and choose your reasons, but we shall never even marginally understand such nostalgia or lackthereof.

What we perceive to be true is only what we want to see ... but what do we want to see? We can hardly remember our dreams, but our nightmares make us shiver with exhaustion.

Our souls are but constructs of human history, but we cannot honestly shrug aside our emotions without the loss of our personalities. Still, let us ask, what is gain without loss?

We should write our stories with pen and ink, but sometimes all we have is blood and tears.

In all our years, have we learned something in the murky depths of our sentimentality? We believe so, yet we are afraid to test such forbidden knowledge.

Anxiously, we leave our seats only to find that our doors lead to possibility. They have not prepared us for this, yet we must jump, pride-less but confident. Are they asking too much of us, or are we expecting too little of ourselves?

I think, that perhaps it is the latter.