I am here. Breathing. Barely. Chest is shallow. Mind is shallow. There’s existential weight and an invisible .45 pressed to my temple. We are being suffocated and eroded slowly. They want to kill our joy. They are killing our joy. It is an action occurring right now. Myself and an entire generation of artists are starving. It is a drop in the bucket compared to the monolithic power dominating the world.
Every day, people cry for more to eat. We watch it on our screen. We do our small part. Because this isn’t a bottom to top problem. It is a top to bottom takeover. They threw us in a pot and raised the heat slowly so we’d never feel the vices of their fingers around our throat. What’s heart shattering is viewers have been transformed into consumers. And consumers don’t want to be uncomfortable so the vulnerable experience of art is the artist holding up a mirror to society but no one looks in the mirror. When they do the very pinprick of pain feels like worlds colliding.
No resilience. No end of suffering in sight. Fat. Soft. Starved. Docile. Defeated. Depraved. Addicts. Mongrels. Mothers. Children. Everyone but them. These worlds still feel little. Like they will do little. Because if you read this you probably feel the weight of consumers nothing too… That shallow endless hit of dopamine, stupefying everyone.
