Impulsiveness is a beautiful, grand double-edged sword. I depended upon my impulsion to lead the way but that beats the purpose of spontaneity. Synonyms for impulsiveness are: recklessness, rashness, hastiness, and irresponsibility. I agree to a certain degree for I see the way the aftermath of my actions doused with impulsiveness end badly. Forces you to take life by the reins, and hold the fuck on.
Planning gives us a pseudo purpose in life. Religion is an organized entity created to lead masses of people to follow ONE designated plan. In Christianity for example, that plan of going to heaven afterwards. A heaven we don’t know exists, all for a God we don’t know exists ultimately to strive towards a moral perfection that we certainly know as humans does not exist. We want to grow up to save the world, make a difference, follow our dreams. Be our generation’s Allen Ginsberg or the next John Lennon. Where are the Andy Warhol’s and Janis Joplin’s of today? Did video really kill the radio star, and everything else in between? We miss even Che Guevara’s destructive passion, and Malcolm X’s gung-ho hostility. Bette Davis and Orson Wells writhe in their graves to see their hard work be replaced by generic mediocrity. Dorothy Arzner questions where are all the women that she set the platform up for against movie giants. Marilyn Monroe scoffs that her supposed replacement couldn’t even retain one role in a notable movie that didn’t go straight to DVD. Hitchcock and Kubrick throw a fit at the horror of the sludge that Hollywood passes off as slasher films. Plenty of rebels without causes who pretend to have one. While living in our bubbles, we are estranged from real troubles. Intentionally detached, and yet we’ll find some petty reason to feel like our lives are shit. Blame the world, the conspiracies, and yet never ourselves. We latch onto materialistic gods that enables the monopolies. The rate we’re going we’ll make a difference with one iPod, Starbucks, Paris Hilton, and Prius at a time. Take some responsibility. We are whores to our learned habits of organization. We then realize in our free country how controlled we actually are by our plastics, brainwashed ideals, and aesthetically appealing figureheads. We are taught to be fearful of change, and to be grounded within routine. Without a plan, there would be chaos, but who said that it had to be a bad thing?
Only in my moments of spontaneity, I drop my defenses, and reveal my mug to the flying fists of consequences. I would see a fist coming my way and refuse to duck. It all happens so quickly that putting up my guards and going against gravity are not worth the effort. My goal in life is to live it. Undergo all the nitty-gritty feelings that derive from our senses, even if they are of the extreme. Fulfill the entire sensory journey. Not to end up like a drone working only to achieve next month’s trends. GQ, Crate and Barrel, Maxim, The Economist all tell me how to conduct my life inadvertently. Pages of advertisement of pretty people, pretty décor, pretty technology to suck me into the cycle of planning. In order to attain that, I’d have to work at this job, to earn this much money, to buy that product, only to start the sequence all over again, like a broken record. Deal with the aftermath when it happens. Play it by ear. People waste too much time planning and not living. What would happen to those plans when you stare down a barrel of a gun? The engine on your plane dies. A giant rig sideswipes your tiny Civic. Run into a loose bullet. Snorted one too many lines. Get diagnosed with a terminal disease. You get the point. Plans become obsolete. They say every birthday is one step closer to death. In a funeral, we celebrate their life, but birthday parties, we must be celebrating for making it alive this far. We’re inadvertently welcoming the aspect that we’re approaching death. Pseudo funeral wakes where all your loved ones gather. Drink, eat, and reminisce. Same pattern. Have I really wasted 27 years trying so hard not to conform, and in a sense that in and of itself was conformity?
Freud would have had a field day with my predicated existence. My life was defined by textbook theories. Imagination was stunted by shallow clichés. Ability to love imprisoned by jaded obligations. The only reason I woke up the next morning in order to prove to people that I didn’t need them. That I could survive on my own. Surrounded myself in a chaos of people that knew my first name, fell in love with my front, and never bother to lift that mask. The drink gave me solace. The drugs never discriminated on whom to effect. And spontaneity gave me the attention I desperately desired.
Impulsiveness is a beautiful thing. It has gotten me in trouble, medicated, arrested, institutionalized, beaten to a pulp, fired, banned, chased, respected, promoted, laid, admired, and most recently, in love. I know that makes me sound like a blubbering pansy but I realized I truly don’t give two fucks on what others might perceive. Make your jokes, spare me your cynicism, give it your best shot. I led the way. I ignited the riots. I've heard them all. Whipped. Converted. Conventionalized. Lost. Puzzled. Emasculated. And yet for the first time, I feel like I’ve taken my first breath of air. And it was brand new, foreign, and frightening but I knew instinctively that I needed to take it, and would be suffocating without it. Didn't know what I was waiting for, what I was so afraid of, for the truth was just so obvious. For the first time, I'm actually living, and I'm happy. Not even my streak of spontaneity has given me LIFE.
Private: I've also never been really great with my words especially as I ramble on my keyboard while you sleep only a few feet away. Never been good at getting to the point as opposed to the actions in my life. I thought I was fearless. Then you came along and made me realize I numbed everything out. By being impulsive once in awhile, or in your words, crazy and foolish, I prided in the pretense that I was truly living life. That I was different than the mindless zombies that I surrounded myself around. I hid behind the front of being reckless and invincible, but in sort of a Catch-22. my spontaneity was calculated. Completely strategic. My scapegoat. My form of organization that I depended upon.
I have fears, and that's just part of being a human. You've resurrected my senses in a way that not even my reckless life has provided. No matter how many times I've been knocked out, broken my ribs, received concussions, shattered my ligaments -- never have my senses felt this heightened. You've given me a feeling beyond something physical. You have shown me that I still have some love in me that hadn't dried up over these years of drought. That there is still potential for me to be a better... no, a good person. Morally conscious. I've realized I've been selfish all of these years. Selfish even to myself. You've showed me that I'm capable of more than what I've been doing. That I deserve more. I'm capable of change. Capable of feeling. Capable of living life in all of its glory.
You came out of nowhere. Nowhere were you plotted in the life I planned... imagined... or even hypothesized. Not even in my what-ifs. I was destined to end up scourging for faceless blonds with the occasional redhead and brunettes only to recall them as one giant blur. You stuck out like a sore thumb. You were just like me amongst the rushed crowd standing still. Almost like a cheesy REM video. I could still taste your kiss, see every subtle feature of your face, smell your scent, hear your contagious laughter echo in my head that if you were to ever leave, I could always revisit what you've given me. In turn, I owe you and myself this. No more hiding. No more bullshitting. No more avoiding.
In these flurry of words, my bottom line is simple. Just like the truth. I'm in love with you, Ant.