Its so funny to me how we know exactly how to live our lives correctly and still we refuse. Sometimes I arrive home after certain nights and I laugh to myself.
Because in truth, we know exactly how to live properly and yet we want nothing of it. We know what our body and minds expect and prefer from us… To eat well and exercise. To not poison ourselves with intoxicants, to live cautiously, and to have discipline and dedication in love and hard work. We are aware that these practices are proven – and yet we want nothing of it. Because a long, healthy life is a travesty and that makes me howl with laughter at times. How comical I find it that the essence of life itself is a rebellion against it. That this is how one truly feels “alive” – by challenging his own world. His own common sense. His own existence.

We don’t want boring schedules worked in boring offices, boring sex in boring homes, boring food served at boring tables. We are drawn to wild nights and wild relationships for the very same reason that when we climb to the highest towers, we cant help but look down no matter how it turns out stomachs. We cannot help ourselves. We cannot shake the temptation. The excitement. Taking care of our own lives is not what makes us feel alive. We live life by dragging it by its very own chains behind us as we run, naked and relentless through the city streets.

Life is so predictably compared to a book over and over. They will pull you into thier offices and thier classrooms and confession booths and they will ask you, “if your life was a book, would anyone read it?” and you laugh because a perfect book is one that has never been touched – never been read – and the book of your life is dirty and its pages are bent and stained because the universe just cant seem to put it down.

In short – If an idealistic society is the bookshelf to which each of our stories belong, then let us be the ones who should never collect dust.