of some sort. Tell me what you thought of the text and what it inspired you to think about the writer, 100% honesty or it won't work. If you don't have the patience to read it, leave a comment saying just that
---------------------------------------- ----------------------------

Under the header of life and death.

We walk around every day, either afraid of one or the other. Young people are full of prefab dreams, old people are full of regrets and everyone in between is just full of shit and fear, as we head towards the bright lights of unified global communities, universal pseudo-culture and equal standards in soft drink consumption. George Orwell almost had it right. The Matrix had it right too, only it’s much worse. No one’s watching you, no one’s using you, no one cares about you enough to kill you. There’s no need for the thought police in a world were labels do the job just fine, where people intentionally plug themselves in, where the little bit of consciousness we have we purposefully rub out to fit in.
In this sad, bleak world, we artist have a mission. Bullshit. That line was bullshit. Read it again. What the hell am I doing right now? This is not authentic, this is crap. The first paragraph…yeah right, like anyone expresses thoughts like that in his or her own head. And what you’re reading right now is just antithesis [see, I didn’t know how to spell that, but the computer did it for me], meant to make you read it to the bitter end, so I can spit my “vision” in your face [I stop calmly to re-read the passage, and make sure it rings true. In fact, this is the purpose of the brackets here.]. For a moment, just for a moment, this actually makes me sad. Now I’m really confused. It’s easy to write something you have planned out, but what the hell do you do when you accidentally pay attention to yourself? Am I right, is it really this bad? Has everything gone to shit…before I can finish that thought, my Halle Berry mousepad distracts me, fortunately enough, just in time to prevent me from waking up. It’s no telescreen, but it gets the job done.
So back we go to my initial patronizing tone. Perhaps there really is someone in our head trying to scream out from underneath all the layers of cool teen magazine padding. Maybe that’s why I take photos of people in the street, regular people, sad, lonely, young, old, unaware or shredding me with their eyes. On the other hand, the thought that I’d call this a project and expect it to end, or that I’d call myself an artist or a photographer may mean that I merely am looking for a quick way to get into some model’s pants, by showing her I’m actually interested in human nature, not her tits.[although they are integral to my message in this one frame.]
I hope you’re not expecting final words of wisdom, or a classical and forever popular “be true to yourself”. What the hell does that mean in a world where slashing your wrists is a cliché?