Elective

There is a beauty about language that transforms into a piece of writing. It does sound idealistic, but art is such that it does not hold someone by the neck and shove it down their throat. Not a child, one who is never to be told. Creativity is a discipline. It is wisdom, bordering painful decisions and alluring daily practices, which rarely demands the attention it deserves. It is exactly how language works. Barthes, would call it jouissance; if you will correct me in case I am wrong – a delightful pleasure seeping into the intellect that is physique. Euphoric. It does not change you as a person, never will it demand from you anything more than values, but indeed, it is hard to say that it won’t question your actions. Mood. We have to come together and understand that this is but art, text, and quite confidently, my loosely held postmodern theories. Simply a mood. You and, me. What a temporary world, but hell. Isn’t this such a great big feeling. Allow it.

There is contended freedom.

There is no sound as soothing as the hustling and bustling of a morning market. The joy of lo mai gai calling out to your attention, and people from all walks of life just attending to their vegetable and fishes.

Art is creativity, expanding itself into a single drop of human experience. There are times language fails to utter this sentence, because pride often supersedes our conscience. It is always a court order, damn it.

The human experience is to simply tune out of the scriptures, repetitive actions and constant noise pollution only to return to it, because may there be answers to this auto-tune madness. It is my cat and its pur. It is my life, and akin to my choices, the mistakes I make because I am human. This are just my experiences.

It is not what I put down on paper that makes me who I am, and it is definitely not ‘The Death of the Author’ as Barthes would title his most popular essay. I think, it is a simple urge to taste what life is like at the expense of being denied.

This freedom prisons.

Gifted artists are special people. They give you everything but their kidneys. These buggers are neurotic, I see them hanging out at almost three in the morning, at first serious and then just chilling because I have no issues parading my legs.

Sexual intercourse between the husband and wife is…not in my experience. A relationship between a boy and girl, now that is a secret. At which point all of these, got messed up is a question I can ask you because isn’t that what this is about. Language.

A special person has no issues of giving you their gift. Happiness, intellect, and a sound mind from the other side. Their gift is to simply enjoy, and if you were to give them a piece of fruit cake even if you’re terribly afraid. I bet, they get taken aback and are able to say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you’ at once, together the fruit cake.

This is cultured freedom.

It is the civilised that I strongly condemn. Since honestly, I have run out of conditions to blame. How postmodern. The nation. The one I live in is a gifted art. An objective reality. Consisting special people, this is the art of jihad. It is the self, challenging its boundaries, rising above poverty, and loving unconditionally. Gosh, creativity.

A civilisation is built and creativity is just so much of work, why do I keep on writing? How can we not sit with a lonely man, next to a plant by the street, plagued by his news-feed? What makes us walk pass the newspaper vendor as he chats away at random. It is the same damn thing. So, why are we who we have become today?

Language does not correct me. Culture, does and that is the way it should be. God knows I hate it.