The angriest man in the world.
There are too few fiery words to authentically describe how angry I feel; this Shakespearean English is too flowery; we need angry, ugly words for when we feel like we're going to go up in flames. I could resort to vehement, caustic phrases but it'd still feel like an ice pack … let's paint pictures of skyscrapers melting in fire, choking smoke coughing out of boiling metal, acrid eye-watering, nose-twisting burning oil. I couldn’t pick this girl's calls, I couldn't feel right, chilling, phone-to-ear, casually asking about her day, sweet-talking her into loud cackling laughter; I want to stay angry, let my bones squeeze and scrunch below my skin, and make my whole skeleton into shockwaves, let ripples run through my cartilage, my sinews, I don’t want to pretend to be chill on the phone and I don't want her to smell the acrid smoke pouring out like dirty cloud-like fumes from my nostrils.
And I am listening to CHROMAKOPIA and my love for art is pulsing rhythmically in me, the feeling is familiar, like a familiar face whenever I face art, that part of me just connects deeply, that part that exists only for art, that would rot away if not for it, that part that is meaningless and foolish and useless and ugly and worthless without art, and Tyler, he feels stark-naked to me, he's whisper-rapping, his f*-that attitude and mindset is the lead and bassline in the songs; reminds me of Fikayo saying the album is nudging him, pushing him to dump law and create art. The feeling is mutual and I hate law so bad because I don't want to do it, because I don't like it, and it's almost as though it's all the world says it has for me, and the sounds of CHROMAKOPIA, the African influences are out and open, like undercurrents through everything. The sounds are seductive, like those light-skinned thighs you've always eyed, flaunted, brandished in your face, but would she let you touch them? You want art like that, you want to pluck orgasmic moans from her but you don't even stretch a finger to the strings, and I feel that fire burning in my chest, that light that Tyler sings about in St. Chroma, and I want my life to have deep, real, personal meaning, and it's a "why sit and write whining essays; just do what you want and f* it and f* everything".
Now he's saying he hopes someone lives their true selves; how sorry would it be for my entire life to be a lie, to spend the days, the years in falsity, to silo away my gifts, and die a mortal, and curse God and spit in His holy face. Satan can never win my soul, no, he and his miserable army of demons, they can't have my divine soul in their vicious claws. I'd spend my soul on these pages, I'd impale myself on my pen, and throw up my warm innards on these pages, bleed thoroughly till I'm spent and anaemic, sacrifice myself on this whitewashed altar, a living-dying artist and exit Shakespeare's stage, a god.
I scrolled up to read now to see how I started: I am so angry that someone I believe in so so much, with soul and spirit and life, doesn't believe in himself, that he could let ill people get to him, get into his head, make him think he's not good enough. I am not a fool. I don’t spend faith recklessly. I also hate to think that I may be doing so this time. I hate those people for saying horrible, dirty, depressing things to him while cosplaying as friends; nothing I hate more than friendly foes. I'd even forgive Satan for all of his sins against all of humanity; we know he's our enemy, we know we're in an eternal dualistic battle between good and evil; but these enemies in the household, it's like Hannah Arendt calls it, "the banality of evil". And so I hate that he believed them. I hate that I know very well that he is the greatest of his kind on the planet, I would hate to see anything, including him, destroy that.
If you believe in multiple lives, you can go ahead and f* this one up; you'd have innumerable lifetimes in a cosmic future, ay? You'd have almost-eternal chances? For me, it's either I had several past lives and here, this, is my last reincarnation, my last chance, my last shot at it; or this is the only one, the only every shot I have or will ever, and so I will seize this life by the horns if it was a bull or by the balls if it is a man.
I'll milk my time. Be my artform's grandest canvas. Be my artform's grandest canvas. Be my artform's grandest.
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“The light is not on you. It’s in you.”
I can’t get that line out of my head.
God, maybe I’m angry too…