I was writing something the other day. I looked at the screen and realized that what I read there wasn't mine. It wasn't the words, those were mine. It wasn't the sentances, those were mine. It wasn't the tone, or the inflection, they were mine. But still it wasn't. Then it hit me. Like a prize fighter taking one in the teeth.
I stole it.
Not intentionally, but I stole it. It was some fetid regurgitation of thoughts, ideas and emotions that I had heard and read elsewhere.
It made me wonder. Have I ever really had an original thought? I reeled from the naked savegery of it.
Books, words, images, TV, talk, concersations, Movies, music... all of it.. pounding... one, two, one, two... right into my brain. Until I can't tell mine from theirs. Where do I begin and they end. Me, Myself, I am an amalgam of amalgams... A thing built from a hundred thousand years of other peoples crap. My eyes roll back.
a copy of a copy of a copy the lines blurr until the paper is grey. What would I be like If I'd grown up in a sterile plastic box? no influence other than me and my walls? What would I do, think, act, feel? Would I be me, or someone else? Things get dark and I feel the air.
Is everyone like this? Have we all been stealing our way through lives? I'll take this, and this, and that and call it me? It can't have always been this way? who was the first domino? Who pushed him? who is the unmoved mover? when was the last time that there was an original thought? A new link in a new chain?
I hit the canvass.
I stole it.
Not intentionally, but I stole it. It was some fetid regurgitation of thoughts, ideas and emotions that I had heard and read elsewhere.
It made me wonder. Have I ever really had an original thought? I reeled from the naked savegery of it.
Books, words, images, TV, talk, concersations, Movies, music... all of it.. pounding... one, two, one, two... right into my brain. Until I can't tell mine from theirs. Where do I begin and they end. Me, Myself, I am an amalgam of amalgams... A thing built from a hundred thousand years of other peoples crap. My eyes roll back.
a copy of a copy of a copy the lines blurr until the paper is grey. What would I be like If I'd grown up in a sterile plastic box? no influence other than me and my walls? What would I do, think, act, feel? Would I be me, or someone else? Things get dark and I feel the air.
Is everyone like this? Have we all been stealing our way through lives? I'll take this, and this, and that and call it me? It can't have always been this way? who was the first domino? Who pushed him? who is the unmoved mover? when was the last time that there was an original thought? A new link in a new chain?
I hit the canvass.