"I've been waiting for hours! How long does it take these people to make a fucking snack?" asked the man who kept the soul of a real rockstar deep within his heart. His prescence was felt around the table, I'd been parentally allocated to. He lit up his fourth cigarette and he went on to rave about life, women, pedophiles and politics, surprisingly all in the same conversation. After a few more cigarettes and my blank shots in the conversations, he lit up a joint in the restaurant and again, continued. He was a man in his own world.
There's not a lot of them nowadays. And all the ones that are still living are usually found dying in a hotel room snowed in with cocaine and the never ending scent of strippers and flavoured condoms. We can only refer to these people as, Charlie Sheens, Kurt Cobains, Jimi Hendrixes, Winehouses, Joplins, Bukowskis, Hank Moodys and the like.
There's no use judging this brand of people. They'll simply laugh at your pussy whipped, realist way of life and continue enjoying the spoils which you secretly envy (fun, substance, liberation, peace, sex and knowledge), while you're left to bend over for authority (pitiful). You envy their freedom, yet you hold yourself back from happiness, too pussy to break the rules, norms and to stand up against the crowd, when you're told what to do and not to do.
The rockstar thrives on chaos and comes out on top. Wanna know how to kill a rockstar? You can't. You can only attempt to slow down this soul's metabolism, using gossip, shit talking, constant critisizing and humiliation. In the end, only a rockstar can rise above the masses and piss on the crowd below. Only a rockstar can blow his own head with a shotgun. In the end, the rockstar is his own worst enemy.
I listened to his words of wisdom, trying to drown every syllabel in my naked mind. I get this sudden probe within my skull and I think that, I'd like to be that, someday.
Happy Fucking New Year...
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