I’m not special. I’m not a beautiful or unique snowflake. I’m the same decaying organic matter as everything else. But I am the center of my own world. But I live in a society. Living individuals in a society have to be carved into identical models of everyone else. But I am the center of my own world. Or am I? There’s too many people. A 100 people fighting for the same job. A 100 people slicing, chiseling themselves away to fit the profile. A 100 people alike. Or a 100 copies of the nonexistent ideal person based on who the profile is made. The closest copy. The seemingly closest copy. Seemingly wins. But the 100 people still alike. Becoming more alike. A group of distinct vibrant candies melted together into an incoherent mush. Where do you end? Or begin. I’m not a beautiful or unique snowflake. There’s too many people. Why should one not be replaceable? Because unfortunately each one is the center of their own world. Even if one is melting away into the society’s mold. The animal that camouflages into the background is left behind when the pack moves on. Why not be left behind. Beings are programmed to live. Stupid beings, victims who think they are champions. Perpetrators are the victims. Victims perpetrate. The only way to be a unique snowflake is art. Art is honest. Art rebels. So art. But art demands. Actors are reactors. Dance needs courage. Painting is boring. A novelist creates. A director creates. A director expresses. But I cannot art because why not not art? Every snowflake is but a product of its biology and external circumstances. With a different set of circumstances, perhaps, a snowflake wants to be a singer. Why did a snowflake think all of this? Snowflakes lately live in post modernity, right there, on the edge of the cliff. Where is post modernity? Right there, on the edge of the cliff called self awareness. Seeming self awareness. Something understood is worthless. Explainable. Modifiable. Up to change, not sacred. But don’t think. Just art. But what is art? Has a snowflake ever seen art? Art is honest. By its very nature, art rebels. What sells survives. Only what sells survives. What sells caters. To cater is to edit, modify, target. Real art is messy. It should be. It should be confused, clueless, lost. Maybe a beginning but no end. It cannot be clear, direct or not lost. Da Vinci is clear, Villeneuve is clear, Nolan is clear. Pollock is confused, clueless. But is Pollock art? Who decides what is art? Is this article confused, clueless, lost? Ah ****, sorry we’ve come to post modernity again. Is all of this valid or just the chance occurrence of pretentious shallow decaying organic matter seeking . Wait. Did I tell you if or why I think I feel I think I think I think I think I seemingly want to be a screenwriter?
