Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Mountain Halo

Whenever someone asks me what any of my tattoos mean, I usually just say something like, “I used to do a lot of acid,” or, “it’s kind of hard to explain”.  Not because it is all that hard to explain, but because they’re personal to me, and nothing offends me more than taking the time to explain something that someone doesn’t listen to, anyway.  Most people don’t take the time to use any of those neurons that help with really understanding the metaphors in Human expression.

When someone at work asked me if one of them was my “key to get into Heaven,”  I had a momentary lapse and got a little bit excited that someone asked such an abstract question.  Then, I realized that he knew nothing about pentacles, or geometric symbolism, or really anything at all.  He was just another caricature of white trash with no real social awareness.  He was just another idiot always trying to sound poignant, or always trying to say something in a way that belied something about himself.  As all people do.

I used to take pleasure in finding out things about interesting people, but I haven’t met anyone I thought was the least bit interesting here.  The only person I would consider friendly and trustworthy on a basic level, just ended up being another caricature in a lot of ways.  Just ended up being someone who would end up awkwardly asking for something.

I just got a very weird sense of déjà vu.

I’ve only really ever heard anyone talk about tattoos in a ‘branding’ sort of way.  They are accessories, things to make you cooler, not necessarily anything to expose your hidden weaknesses or psychoses.  They are family names, or a cool design, or something to show others that you’re a hard-ass.  People have told me before that mine look like I drew them on myself; that’s why they are there, really.  I carved them into my own persona, to remind myself that there is much more than persona in this country.

People are so generic sometimes that it makes me wonder if I slept in during The Great Conversion, where the populace became sheep.  Even the anti-conformists conformed to their own anti-conformity.

I never really connected my persona to my real emotions, because it never felt natural to relate to people in a real sense.  But, I guess that’s just a symptom of my schizoid-ness.  I am nothing but generic replies, generic statements and generic politeness when it comes to the masses.  But, I also know that if I did some sort of ‘radical honesty’ thing, I would probably just spend my entire life berating people for not really thinking for themselves, even when they think they are.  I’m not 16 anymore, so the thought of that just seems so… unclean.  As much as I can look down on them from some corner of my own individuation, I can never bring myself to spit vitriol like that into another person’s eyes.  Because then, they will just be blind, and angry.  And I would get into too many fights.

All I can really do that gives me a sense of control is maintain that separation from other people, to make them think that there’s something behind my vision that is untamed and unknowable.  Something about the way people react to my making eye contact with them makes me feel better about myself, like my eyes are still the massive razors boring through the thoughts of another.  Or maybe they can sense that I’m completely insane from my glowering.

A long time ago, someone told me that I had soulful eyes.  If that’s true, I wonder what that says about the black holes they’ve become, now.

Or, maybe people think I’m always trying to intimidate them.  Maybe they think I desperately want to act like I’m hard.  But that feeling of decimating someone’s personality by seeing right through them is so satisfying to me, it’s almost worth what I paid to receive it.

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