connect the dots

words have no meaning other than what you assign to them. meaningless ink on a page, in a string that means something to someone, but never the same to others. to some people, feelings take on words. and words take on extravagant and connectionless meanings. speaking is a connect the dots puzzle, but every single connection possible has a new picture. connect them the way your neurons want to the first time? get a picture of you being stabbed. connect them again differently. a brilliant illustration of you being lead around by your intestines. ask for second opinions, how would you connect this? they start from the opposite end, completely different directions. picture of you being stabbed again. you must like being stabbed, right? or else you wouldn't be stabbed anymore.

that's the cool part about art. you fling garbage onto a canvas and it comes out with some new meaning, you slit your wrists onto the page and someone else sees it as encouragement. everything we do is political, every word a piece of art to dissect. but everything you do is wrong, it will be taken in the worst way by the best people. you hurt those you love by living, you hurt them even more by trying to end it. suicide or revolt, all cause pain. camus was right but he didnt account for portland polycules. if camus knew about new england he wouldve killed himself. can you believe he died in a car crash? guy talked about suicide all the time but he revolted, in the end. died in the most meaningless way possible. happened to me once.

but even camus has people reading his words and everyone goes, wow, he's so pro suicide! and he isnt, like if you can read. but art is art, you can interpret it however you want, i guess. i'm so sick of fill in the blank. i want life to be simple. i want words to mean what they mean. i want to fill in the dots. connect them by number. one picture. no ambiguity.

but then i wouldn't be an artist.