a romantic view.
Which do you see?
The one? Or the hundreds, maybe even thousands of tiny figures that make up that one.
The collective. Weird. The way photos like this let you see.
Same way that drugs do. The artist, she had to have this in mind. Because now I want drugs.
There’s a part of me, you know, that would love to go back, to live that life again.
But not now. I’d want it to be the same and it cannot be the same. Laws of physics or whatever. Now that I’m thinking about it, I realize I do live that life, or at least a remnant of it. I love that.
Otherworldly way of seeing things, thinking about things, that it fosters. And I don’t want to give that up. Most of it’s societal bullshit, anyway, norms and shit. Fuck norms. Which isn’t to say I’m not realistic, either. I mean, I am, in that I am a dreamer.
A dreamer who thinks critically reading the New York Times every Sunday morning. A great deal of my view is steeped in a romantic view of drugs, admittedly. I don’t care. The world doesn’t have nearly enough of it. Not nearly enough.