fuck the poor ethiopian children

There is a strange sort of energy surrounding me today. I rest on my right hand and stare at the photograph of H, and realize he is doing the same in the photo. His eyes, call to me, mysterious and beautiful, and yet silent and predictable. They beg me to explore their depths, unleash the hidden world which they protect, unfold the grand secret of the universe locked in H’s brilliant mind. Everything is ok today, in fact it is brilliant. Or am I fooling myself here? I’ve felt this way for several days. “Life”, as would be put, is rolling along smoothly and progressively. H’s university papers are exerting upon him new energy for knowledge and a slightly higher rate of productivity than the past 2 years. His sense of responsibility, although usually normal, in some cases has been heightened undoubtedly due to the strain I put on him. We are dreamers, trying to break through the rock of this world and mold our evanescent and varied fantasies into tangible, visible statues which in their immortal unbreakability will change the world. How much easier this is said than accomplished. A list of goals has been written, discussions ranging in topics and plans have been ample throughout the years. And yet, as I sit here, there is nothing within my grasp that I can point a finger to and say, “ah-hah, I have created that!”. Even my sculptures, which bring such joy and supernatural ego out of me, sit dull and mock me as if to say, “look at all this time you’ve spent on me, and what have you gotten out of it? Not a snitch of money, not a hint of recognition, nothing, nada. HAHHAHAH!!!!!!!”. My artworks, paintings, sketches, even worse, as they are just scratchings on paper or canvas done by the stupid tools of man, and my insufficient fingers. The writings, the poetry, the short stories, the memoirs, all useless. It is a day like this when I find myself wishing that I was a bank accountant, or salesclerk. Some job which does not require any imaginative thought, and laughs at it. Who, what am I? A grown “adult” who fantasizes all day, and when creating these fantasies into “work”, all that is done is to bring my own thoughts to visual life. Woop de doo. Who gives a shit. The artist is the world’s biggest joke, a profession which is completely unnecessary to man, and yet here we are, the elitists who insist upon finding the bigger picture out of life, and contemplating its grand meaning. I hate this aristocratic mentality and these vulgar paintbrushes and the coffee stained tables to which freedom and happy-go-luckiness lifestyle are associated with. I haven’t accomplished anything. And even if I had, say if I had won a thousand art contests, and was an internationaly known author with an email inbox full of millions of hopeful youths sending me their work in hopes to “someday be like you, Ms.”, and say even that the “Ms.” would be a “Dr.”specifying either a medical degree or a p.h.d professorship, and I had a huge summer cottage in Naples. Would that change everything? I don’t know. I like to tell myself, no it wouldn’t, but my mother would call that a sour grapes mentality. After all, what is it that I physically have? The work which I’ve created throughout the years is completely unknown to the mass populace, so although it is mine, it isn’t really a valuable asset to have in terms of monetary compensation or immortal fame. The man which I love, isn’t respected by my father, nor my mother, and in general underestimated by the mass populaces as timid and weak. The executive furnished studio apartment equipped with all your modern conveniences: tv, microwave, queen size bed, desk, comfy furniture, front-loader double washer/dryer in one, electric flat top stove, fancy shmancy dishwasher, and aside from the shitty view facing a construction site with the ogling eyes of construction workers, this classy little dwelling which we have just moved into last night, is not comforting to me because of its ridiculous rent which will be sucking our savings down into the whirlpool of economic progression which advances.. Hmmm… nobody I know, but somehow Oprah Winfrey still manages to give away million dollar Subarus as her takeaway gifts on her talk show, and radio contests fly people on all expenses-paid trips to Tahiti, and all the while I’m here, poor as hell. Forget the starving children in Africa. I’m sick of everybody talking about the damn starving Ethiopian children. I’m starving! Unless you’re Angelina Jolie or Mother Theresa don’t give me some sympathy speech about the world affairs of today. Most talk a lot and few do anything. Including myself. But if you really gave a shit about the poor starving children, you’d save yourself the five minutes it took you to give me your useless rant and spend it researching ways to help them. And not just by sending them money or canned food products. Develop a business plan to “teach them how to fish”, instead of “feeding them for a day”. That, by the way, is exactly what I’m currently working on. Another one of the useless, growth-abstract ideas I have. It could be questioned, but, why are you spending so much money on an apartment? Well, it so happens that the housing market today is very unattainable, and this was the cheapest place we could find. So how am I advancing? I stretch myself “to the limit”, insert “eye the tiger” to be playing in the background here, every day physically, I can almost do the splits, and am now very capable of doing a variety of twists and freakishly distorted body flexes which normally would only be seen in Picasso’s cubism works. Also, I have proven my mother and previous best pal wrong by finally attaining a natural sense of rhythm and being able to “dance”. Contrary to popular belief, what you’re born with is not what you were meant to be. I hope I am a living example of this. In 4th grade, I was an ugly, rhythm-less, nerdy, teacher’s pet dork. Now, I can sexually seduce, satisfy, and make fall in love with me any man on the planet (yes, this is an actual skill), have performed in front of large audiences of people in all areas of performance art, and am now considered by many to be physically beautiful. So Ha! To all you cynics. This may not seem like any great or even provable feat, but for me it is an accomplishment of self which I am extremely proud of, for defying your own insecurities and fears and making them into your strengths is one of the most incredibly fun things you can ever do. Aside from this great inner discovery and confidance of self, many days I feel like a pitiful mouse, too small to make any changes in the world or to be noticed. Yet, remember the elephant? The elephant, is the world to me, and there are days when I can make it shriek, and even help it out. This mouse still has some supernatural power. Which however is completely useless in all measures of tangible success. All my inner qualities and talents are UTTERLY POINTLESS in this world. I, am a waste of space. I am also, GOD. H and I are sentients of incomprehensible genius, trapped in these meak versions of ourselves, judged by the rulers of society and history. When will people stop using comparison? Or is that just my “excuse” to rid myself of the responsibility to stand up to whatever it is that I really should be doing. My mother‘s voice is ringing in my ears, or rather my mind, actually somewhere in the back of my brain in the same region where the songs I can‘t get out repeatedly play until I‘m tempted to walk down to a gun shop in order to shut them up, “Sour grapes, sour grapes, buska. The reality is..”. What is the reality? Does anyone really know? Can you define it for me in a sentence, and not some vague definition like “the world you see around you”, or “the socio-economic battle of dog eat dog that we live in”. No, I want a fucking meaning of life answer that includes an explainable equation to H, my artwork, myself, this apartment, your history, past, the future, and yes, even the fucking poor starving Ethiopian children.