I don't expect people to understand.
Honestly, they can't even understand.
They don't give a shit.
They're all NPC's living in the matrix.
Watching time tick, playing with their dick, thinking fuck all but the next dopamine hit.
Fucking pathetic.
Do I offend you? You who stumbled here into my room?
The one who intrudes? That's you.
I don't seek fame or fortune.
I have a career and enough money for what I need.
My art stands on it's own for me.
That's something I learned through this mystery.
That the act of doing so is so fulfilling, so invigorating, that it rivals going over the speed limit.
Not just 5, 10, 15 over the limit, but way over the limit where one wrong move will end it.
And that doesn't even come close to what I felt.
I've done plenty of drugs in my life. None of them became addictive. Because it was fake.
Codeine? Ecstacy? Weed? I've done all of it.
It's all inauthentic.
Anti-depressants, yes I've tried it.
You know what that resulted in? Almost dying and finding out that it doesn't help kick the habit.
It's all just to make money.
Pretend it helps you and me.
The real solution is difficult and arduous.
Unavoidable and it'll eat away at you.
Unless you face it and fight it.
Wake up and live in the moment.
Who says to listen to you?
What reason is there?
When did what you say matter?
Where did opinon become fact?
Why should I bend my ideals for yours?
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