Stagnation

There's a sense of overall stagnation in the air, just everywhere I look. Or maybe it's just me. It seems I'm somehow out of touch with most of the things. I'm too tired to amuse myself with the cheap thrills my so called peers occupy their times with. All these artists and musicians (I'm not going to mention any names here); little self-centered, narcissistic cartoon characters, whose little worlds revolve around their own little navels they consider their precious Axis Mundi. And am I just all the same? No, I'm not searching new friends with a talk like this. Often I wonder if these people just secretly loathe me, but playing a smooth, nice guy with a permanent smile glued on my face is just not me. I'm awkward, moody, reticent, nervous and sweat a lot. I smell secret age discrimination. No sweet young thing or a golden boy charming everyone. Narcissism is a disease, and my own special brand of that is not just better or worse than the one I see in those people. They talk smooth and sweet like a bunch of new era Mephistos, but how can I be sure they are not just talking with forked tongues; ready to stab me in the back when the right occasion arises?

Perhaps I'm just paranoid, a control freak who's afraid I'm kicked out of their little sandboxes, cast out from their little games. Perhaps I'm only reflecting my own fears and frustations on them. So, what's the point in playing the game? Ego is a burden.

And talking about stagnation, I think the whole music scene is undergoing a period of one. They still recycle 20-25 year old genres and styles, and it's the biggest thing that's happening in the alternative music now. White, pale middle-class Fenno-Ugric kids in Finland are happy with their shallow, empty, washed-out domestic hiphop sounds, think they're black gangstas living in American inner-city ghettos or wear dreadlocks and try to toast in Finnish about the virtues of eating your vegetables; girls want to be like those Afro-American soul goddesses they see on MTV and do R&B dance routines around their handbags in their expensive sleeveless tops and stretch jeans. The experimental scene has disappeared up in its own rear, gazing intently on their laptops like some crystal balls and miking up their own buttholes for some new interesting acoustics.

What is there for me to do except to wait? Buried in my concrete bunker which sees no light of day; reading, writing, thinking, sleeping, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.