The Cubist

I am a writer. I am a cubist.

Cubism is my Literature. In a blank sheet of paper, I paint a metaphor—objects, colors, and ideas are cube-like, like a geometrical form written in an empty canvas. To write is to feel the sexual urge created in dull colors.

Oh, Marilyn Monroe!

Yet to write is not to answer the inexplicable problem: human reality. Rather, to express it. Life is no Lothlorien. This is Sartre’s world: existence as animosity and joy, between the contingency and fortuity of our own Existence.

I sometimes think Picasso is my model. Stroking my paint brush in the color pallette—ah, my own expression of human sadness and misery—I imagined him naked, his body is distorted figure of a woman, sensual, charming, with a pinkish, gullible lips. His body, a metaphor of existential ambiguity, was sketched in ethereal passion of fear and macabre. Ah, what is art but the truest expression of an artist as the illogical in this mixed-up, crazy, rational world?

Life is objective; yet subjectivism is my truest expression. I am the irrational object of this world. I am the thinking-thing whose life is to experience the horrifying truth: alone with no one to redeem my life.

It’s like I exists inside a box, and I, is doing a bungee jumping at the cliff between logic and sexual urge. To exists as a finite object in a psychedelic orgasm. To experience this dread, to affirm one’s self in the face of fortuitous event, to exist in Geometry.

“Dread is the possibility of freedom”, Kierkegaard wrote. “To exist”, therefore, is to experience this dread. With the possibility of freedom, I can affirm myself in this objective world though affirmation will just make me as a surreal object. When I say ‘surreal object’ I mean as a fleeting individual; the cubist, the irrational, I am, existing in the objective world.

To experience this dread is to affirm one’s existence. To negate the objectivity of life is to affirm my subjectivity. To affirm my poetic orgasm is to negate logic. Cubism is ambiguous; and Life is pussy logic.

“Hey, this is ridiculous!” you say. “Well, here is my grave,” I will argue. “Beyond here is nothing, no sexual orgasm either. I will not even hear the serenading voice of Sarah McLachlan. You see; living is despair. Life is beautiful but with me, it is a horrifying experience.” Ah, with death, we will never explain the logic of our existence. Life is objective but not I. No matter how we comprehend the world, it will end to of being illogical and ambiguous.

Well, I believe nothing, as what Woody Allen puts it, only sex and death.