There is a lot to be said about loving flaws. Poetically, ideally, it sounds beautiful. Realistically, it sounds impractical. How do you love a family member knowing their disapproval of homosexuality, for instance. How do you create a love that accepts hatred-blind hatred. Sometimes the thought that you could love someone so immensely is awkward to me. Other times, it's more natural than breathing. To be human, and to accept your own humanity is the biggest mystery to me.
It baffles me that over the span of human existence-in this state of evolution-we have created so many religions, so many philosophies, simply to begin to understand ourselves.
I want to go back to being fifteen at times. My words didn't have the barrier of age. I could ask, what does death mean, without sounding like a child. Sometimes I want simplistic questions and even more simplistic answers. What is God? What is life? What does it mean to believe? Can one person change the world? How can I change the world? The simple curiosity of a fifteen year old vs. the greedy twenty-one year old who wants all the answers right now, it's an interesting comparative.
Thoughts are overwhelming and underwhelming but never truly whelming (Clueless reference anyone?). It is always either too much or too little. As an artist, you either create or you are created. As a human, you keep trying to distance yourself from your humanity. By butchering people or by creating supernaturals, you distance yourself from the human in you. Where does this self-loathing come from? Do we inherit it from our ancestors? Do we adopt it from the worst of our kind? You keep hurting and weeping and hurting and weeping.
Telling yourself to breathe, reminding yourself to take it easy. C'est la vie. But why is life such? Why not better? We are certainly capable of it. Why don't we expect better from ourselves? Why are we so lazy?
