Here's a thought worth writing down.
If I was going to think of one thing we've learned from the travels of our most recent genius-folk, it would have to be this - they have reminded us that we are fragile.
I was thinking about this when Hunter S. Thompson died. Now I don't know a lot about him, I'm not his biggest fan or anything, but of course I've heard the stories and now I've read a bunch of his stuff and I recognize clearly that the man could really write.
Just like Bukowski could really write.
Just like Kerouac and Ginsberg and those other beat poets could really write.
Just like Dylan can really write.
The list goes on, the souls who decided to live their philosophy and find a new existential art to jot down for posterity. And the common thread between them seems to be that they threw caution to the wind, they dove down deep to that thick sludge of our blackness and drank it up.
They indulged upon the dark side of their moon relentlessly. |
 |
As I look at what they have become by their orgy, would it be so awful to call it a shell?
I think they prove beyond much doubt that caution is not without its merits.
That we are more fragile then we think.
