Sketches For My Sweetheart The Goth Journal entry no: 1 Reader count: 0
“As a kid I rubbed my W O O H O O W H E N I F E E L H E A V Y M E T A L ! ! against all the furniture in the house because it felt good, and I had no idea why.”
Ex machina must be a tempting thought for a deus
Nobody deserves happiness. Fix this plague like the sinner you hope to be.
Nihilism is for winners, all the cool kids are Nietzschean
As a kid, I’d listen to Blink-182 with the volume turned up to eleven. You think they hate you when you’re twenty-three? Try being twenty-seven. There’s music for when you’re young, and there’s music for when you’re old, and everyone acts like you’re just supposed to listen to hopped-up yuppie music or club-bangers about molesting women when you’re in your twenties.
It’s the same with philosophies of life. Get on the conveyer belt is all. Start philosophically illiterate until you’re twelve. The philosophy of self until fifteen.
School to college. Big Boi pants. Camus. More Camus. More Camus. Life is absurd, maaaaaaaaan. Like, life is, like meaningless, maaaaaaan. Or Sartre. Long words long words long words. Everything is meaningless. Or Nietzsche. Air of superiority and a pack-a-day cigarette habit. I don’t drink, man. Drinking is for the uncultured.
Be depressed through college. All sentimental. Your first big heartbreak makes you more American than you’d admit; no longer a fan of the mainland European philosophies you thought would protect you from this very sinking feeling, you propel yourself further away from home, across the Atlantic Ocean to America, land in a bale of post-modernism. Shrug your way past graduation.
Get a job.
Become a practical hedonist. Rediscover love. Rediscover drugs.
Remain in love. Remain in light.
Find philosophy on the sleeve of a book about managing mid-size teams.
This is where you’re supposed to be at this age:
W H I T E L I G H T / W H I T E H E A T
Wait, but why?
Wait, but why find yourself amazed at waitbutwhy just because you’re in your twenties and find yourself resting easy on a bed sheathed in vanilla ice-cream day in and day out?
Why not try some dressing?
Or something completely different?
Get a job.
Become an impractical romantic. Rediscover love. Rediscover drugs.
Rediscover hate. Secretly seethe with rage.
Learn new things about yourself and the world.
Go to the supermarket.
Buy a pack of chips.
Put them all on one shoulder.
I’ve had a spiritual reawakening in my months away from serious writing.