Void becomes art and the public comes in droves to witness the freak, the bitter mourner of abstinence or regrets, the unfortunate visionary, the commiserator, the pop-icon. We swear we will never be that person, and we wish we could be. We discuss this as though we are unaware of our surroundings, and we go home to watch old movies on the sofa with a pitcher of mudslide and a box of tissues, snuffing out illumination into the overflowing ashtray of American discontent. We feed on the morbid fascination of the cultural heresy of being alone, but whether we want to be that person depends on which commercial is on at any given thirty second interval. Everyone walks away sated until we realize we are drained.
Cycles can be comforting, seemingly satisfying, disturbing things.
They comfort yet strike fear in the heart of a culture in which the ideas of both love and emotional autonomy are romanticized. This leaves us running in circles and tripping over ourselves at every turn, willingly. We pick up and try again once in while, only to recoil from permanence in lamp-lit rooms of unrequited gloating where we write the seldom recited poetry of our wretched fortunes. If we fail, we also, all too often, fail to learn. The only thing we can do is to be aware.