So Few People Understand.

I would also like to leave everyone but my art, and that one who makes my art with me, behind. I would also like to be who I was before, when all that mattered was what was written. When all that mattered was who he was, was who Fernando was. When all that mattered was who those people whom we made were. It is a different thing to make people. So few people understand. If only I could know someone who had made someone, who had made someone who knew something, who had made someone who intended to know someone even if it was supremely hard for them to understand someone.

To make someone is to be responsible for someone, is to be able to excuse this person, to
be able to know what motivates this person, what makes him/her who he/she is. I would like to know who George Barnes is; I would like to know that George Barnes is someone specific, is someone who has been somewhere. But, he is so difficult, he is so complicated. I want to write about other people who are more there, who are more forward.

I would like to write about a certain Slipster. I would like to write about many people. But, I get lost in all the subjectivity. I wish I could be more distant. I wish I could be more like he who gives not a shit. I wish, sometimes, I could give nothing and get just that back. But, also, I am clearly a liar. I want nothing more than to know people, than to know that people know me. But, mostly, I care about words and about people living the words they make. And that is why the Subservient Worker, the Waiter Rant, Fernando Pessoa and all the rest are so important, because they are words. How I live to be words.