The Small Things

There was a day many years ago when I realized that I wasn’t the only one preoccupied by things that the grand majority didn’t care about. My mother would comment on how involved people would get over movies and music and pictures, while I on the other hand would play a game of challenging myself to find more of just that.

I know it’s extremely utopian to believe the entertainment industry but I cared more about people in books than people in real life. Nothing could really match up to what music made me feel or what a painting could tell me.
There was a small nook in my room where I stratigically placed my cd-player and would sit there, getting into it. It was interesting to hear people creating sounds (and words to accompany it) that cared intensely about things. It was remarkable that musicians seemingly didn’t give a fuck about what others thought and said “Fuck it, I’ll write a song about ducks”.
I respect the insignificance, I might even value it more when someone is passionate about what makes them tick. There’s a great divide that seperates me from people (and I’m not saying that they’re in the wrong), it might be that I give a fuck about too much because I take everything into consideration before dismissing it. Add the fact that my face’s permanent state is “try me bitch” and you’ve got yourself quite a paradox happening. I care too much while appearing not to care.

The meaning behind fixating on the details makes for a grand bigger picture, doesn’t it? Can you feel happiness when you’ve never felt content? Would you like the movie if you hated the actors? Is it possible for a song to move you if there’s one instrument out of tune?

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