Bit of Salvagable wreckage

 

A bit of time-traveling was necessary to post this blog, as it just didn’t fit with the rest of the blogs of 6/6/2011, so I have snook it amongst the blogs around 6/6/2010. I have sent this blog back one year, for the sake of the continuity of the blog and also because I am ashamed to still be the wreck that I am from time to time; there seems to be an expectation to grow out of the kind of unhappiness which gets in the way of the everyday life on a 21st century adult, leave it in youth (with our music records which apparently we can only relate to in our ‘teen angst days’) as we begin our professional lives . Well, for whatever reason I have yet to achieve this (what a bad fucking pupil I’ve been). So, lets pretend that this is 2010 and not 2011.

My life doesn’t seem to be under my control. I am being guided to the places I don’t want to be and made to be a person I don’t want be. But every solution becomes a tool to aide my problems. Those who say they can heal me merely go by procedures to condition me into fitting right back into the type of world that has made me ill, by simply trying to make me forget truths.

I cannot picture a future, not for me not for our world: “what do you want to do for a career?” “fuck off, get out of my fucking face, OK!”. All I have is these petty drawings which explain the way I feel. But my truth has to compete with the truth of a thousands commercial advertisements which bombard my works’ viewers and bombard them thereafter. It fails. I fail. Have already (so it seems), but the treadmill hasn’t stopped yet, that’s all. When It does, I do not know what will happen. I am immune to love, others may offer me. I am immune to enjoying what is still nice in the world. All I’ve had is this regime, which I convince myself is a fruitful fight against the system.

People must get annoyed when I send out mobile phone texts to them to remind them/ask them/try to amuse them, with a rapidity of machine gun fire, but I have to keep a force/a barrier which gives me the feeling of bolstering my existence against failure/dejection/ and a bleak emptiness. It’s a war against a falling apart of everything which life seems to be taking me towards anyhow.

Only when medication wears off do you realise that without it you cannot cope. People say “you don’t need it” but whilst the world veers (environmentally, thus [then] every way else) out of control, something has to be sending lies to my brain in order for me to carry on. Am I perpetuating the root-cause of mental illness, by carrying on this way? Of course I bloody am, but what else can I do when my immediate body is in turmoil and it begs for some road sweep to to clear this mental mess up?

I reject this system (whole-hearted) but it drags me through life, and (no matter what all the false-gap year-‘academiatic’ – positivists say) most of the time I do NOT control over my destiny, and I need the pills like the starving need food (a comparison which [crude as it may be] more or less diagnoses both sides of the coin of humanity under late capitalism).
………………………………………………………………………….
nowt left to say today………..

About John Ledger

A visual Artist, eternal meanderer and obsessive self-reflector by nature, who can’t help but try to interpret everything from within the tide of society. His works predominantly take the form of large scale ballpoint pen landscape drawings and map-making as social/psychological note-making. They are slowly-accumulating responses to crises inflicted upon the self in the perplexing, fearful, empty, and often personality-erasing human world.

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