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Thursday, September 24, 2015

Two-Headed Boy

The way I see it, there are two categories of lovers. I'm not just talking about interlocking genitals either. I'm referring to love of all things, beauty, art, music, whatever. These two categories are like the two ways one can fish. Catch and release, or gut and take home.

I've always considered myself to be of the former type. For most of my life, I was fine with the experience itself. I had no need to capture it. I loved, and I let my love be.

The other type feel a compulsion to own all they love. They want to capture it and take it home with them. They want it documented, contained, and readily available. These are the people at concerts with phones held high. The ones taking pictures of sunsets, downloading all their favorite albums, texting their lover 300 times a day.

I see nothing inherently wrong with either practice, nor am I condemning any of them. I am simply noting an observation. I've simply never felt the need to hold onto the things I've loved. I am content with the experience itself. I take what is given me and let it come and go as it pleases. I saw this as a fact of life. When we die, we leave everything behind, so what is the point of fruitlessly trying to hold onto anything?

When beauty comes my way, I let it. And when it goes, I also move on.

But there are those who feel the converse. They desire control. They are not content to let some outside force govern when and where something lovely happens to them. They want to instantly call up happiness from the massive vault of significant moments they lord over.

There have been many times a song is played that I adored and the moment and memory were enough for me. The idea to record the song's information to find and keep for myself later never occured to me. Maybe I'll hear it again, maybe I won't. The other type will flip shit if they hear a song they love and don't note down the artist, album, year it came out, backstory of the band, etc.

I think I somewhat understand them. In fact, most people are them. I'm one of the few exceptions. For as long as I've lived, they have tried to convert me to their ways. They think I'm insane for not trying to keep what I love. They ask what I will do if I never hear it again. I say, then I'll never hear it again, I'll just do something else. This blows their mind.

I had hoped with age, these people would change, but they won't. I can see it now. Many older people still feel this way.

I get a lot of shit for being myself. Apparently my personality is some strange patchwork quilt of minorities and exceptions. That's okay, I guess. I've been trying for years to see from their perspective, and I think I have a general idea.

Honestly, I think the main cause is insecurity and fear. If what you love isn't firmly within your grasp, you might lose it forever. Documenting all you do is proof you have lived. Constant entertainment forms a sort of barrier between oneself and death.

Like safety, this is but an illusion. Love is like sand and the harder you try to hold onto it, the more it slips through your fingers. All the instagrams in the world can't stop the inevitable flow of time from washing away all memory of you. And not acknowledging death doesn't make death any less ineluctable.

I'll adopt a few of your ways in order to share a bit of my world with you, but for that reason alone.

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