Urban living is a travesty.
It is unnatural. It is forced, like an empty masquerade. There are too many people, too many caves, too many cars. Too much.
Pressed together, stacked, impacted, bleeding profusely from the lacerations of modernity.
Big city, squashed-in existence, is the anti-life.
It is a 99-cent trinket.
When dwelling within masses of humanity pressing in on your sanity, you lose individuality, you lose that special snowflake aspect of your existence. Soulless. Humanity is rendered tragically expendable. We are overpopulated, not because we don’t have the ability to sustain most of our useless population, but because there are too many people to justify individual worth.
Today I had to walk through parts of Hollywood I normally don’t because of filming going on outside the Hollywood & Vine Red Line station. I walked by areas I don’t know because I no longer have a social life. PUA/Gamers and 28-year-old handsome guys have lives and they electrify the new Hollywood. I don’t have a life. I leave work, talk to no one, see no one, come home. I walk the same, abandoned route where there are few people, no hip businesses, nothing. This morning that changed as I walked my alternate route. Suddenly it struck me, the fucking artificiality. Bars and restaurants, recreating exotic locales, smart and witty names distracting, people walking to work in expensive clothes, unattainable footwear, everyone in the big city looking to make a splash. The big city steers what America sees and becomes. Even the America that is not a big city. The urban culture becomes our culture. It’s pure, artificial garbage. Everything in the big city is a put-on.
The artifice of urban living disproportionately empowers the feeble-minded and the feeble-hearted. You can be much less of a person in the big city because your style and trendy hipness can carry guide you through the obstacle course untouched and you have less to display, less to prove. Sincerity is shit in the big city.
Yet, sincerity is man’s sole path to the enclave of humanity.
All else is transient bullshit and not real.
The big city with its lights and noise and human dejection is not real.
The big city is not sustainable. It is an affront to life.
Everyone I cross paths with has a blank stare and a disconnected fascination with reality, one that is far from the city, beyond the civic limits.
Urban inhabitants are drawn to a primal memory of life, a pastoral existence where nothing is proved or disproved. Where existence is plodding but beautiful, not a duplicitous facade. Urban living is a humid mask that sticks to your skin. It is a shield fending off that which resides deep in our nature, but which, if allowed to escape, will upset the Big Lie.
Walking amid groups of too many people, the Big Lie is our umbrella and our raft.