Thoughts, on a solitary day trip to London.
On the London underground…
How can anyone be fully conscious and aware? in a city the size of London?; one moves so fast that it is virtually impossible to do so. There’s no long gaps between the trams, no places devoid of advertisements or ‘people a plenty’ (both of which require one to compare his/her lot physically or mentally – depending on what qualities that advert of facing person in question has), life is a clock and a race to be, either at work, or to be the best, at home relaxing or relaxing with friends – nothing is free to occur, nothing is free for the imagination.
But there again, who needs thoughts of this sort in a ultimately advanced capitalist city? all one needs is clocks and numbers, in fact that’s all one can afford to have, other thoughts get it the way of existing in such places – I even find this is true in much smaller cities, and my experience of London has confirmed that it must be doubly hard to think about things here.
In St Pancras Station, London
Is the task for the depressive to shakes one’s misery off by transferring it into creative output? Maybe all artists are depressives, but not all depressives are artists? but they could be.
Perhaps this is the depressives’ only saviour, as we – the depressives – know we cannot apply ourselves to anything else – not for any long period anyway. A depressive is an artist – even if it hasn’t been realised – and artists are incapable of living a normal life as such – one of a day job, and one accepting convention where, afterwards, enjoyment can be taken from time spent with people who are close to them.
A true artist is not an artist by choice; he/she is a born depressive – or at least, a depressive when they finally come into contact with the conventional human world – who’s artistic pursuits are the only thing keeping him/her from becoming utterly dysfunctional because of depression, especially dysfunctional in a modern industrial society.
Besides that fact there is simply a larger concentration of artists in heavily populated industrialized nations, perhaps these world’s of mechanical and mass products all around us, make an abundance of terminal depressives, who need to find a ‘voice’ within THE SPRAWL. This would explain the reason why there is so many artists, so many musicians, so many in the field of the arts, putting themselves ‘out there’ in such societies as our own – an advanced capitalist society, of mass produced consumer goods.
Ok, they won’t all ‘make it’ but this won’t stop them, as they cannot stop – not without becoming utterly dysfunctional depressives.
On the train, London to Sheffield
What am I thinking?!; the weak will never inherit the earth. I am weak; I am of weak mind. No matter how many ‘clever’ things I think about, I am destined, by my posture and mental wiring’s, to go nowhere, lose all my teeth and end up lonely.
This isn’t self pitying, believe me; it is ‘clear goggles’ thinking about myself, which says “you’ve been dreaming in a destiny all your life which will never be yours, no matter how clever some of your ideas may be. You are of weak mind when it comes to dealing with real life and its tasks”.
Written word has such a different affect on others to that of the spoken word/words in conversation, which means that hopefully people who know me can understand me more from my writings, as opposed to my ‘jellified’ manner, when in a conversation. In a conversation these thoughts would come across as melodramatic and self pitying; in written word what I am saying here is more likely to be seen as very honest.
I am sat here on the train, half panic-battered because I cannot cope with people – So I went to London by myself. However, I cannot function properly by myself either, i.e. going to food places, seeing stuff etc, are things I find impossible to undertake by myself. So, all I do is eternally drift through life. The production of art work is my only rock in this never ending sea of confusion and dissolution.