An Open Letter

Dear Reader,

To profess and rant about Existentialism and the advent of the vehemently claimed ‘Hipster’ would be very far from new; however, the connection between those two creates a system of machinery which is the truest reflection of inane human shenanigans shown to us thus far. One could either beat a tube of glue with a baby’s toy hammer coloured red, green and pink, or simply look for existentialism in Indie-rock in order to finally delineate him/herself with respect to the physical and mental capacity that society has defined for them – this capacity being what in turn defines them, labels, etc. – and transcend to a certain selflessness. Musicality flows easily and freely through every person, putting thought to words, i.e. lyrics is what makes a Jim Morrison. Of all the music out there, it is the Indie music – those which are propagated by Hipsters who look up MySpace pages with a maximum of 5 followers – that bring the sobbing mother, the tiring father and the angst-full teenager to our ears. Tales of the day, things you go through: the narrative of my mind. Not the stuff you’d talk about at the laundry, but those moments of deep insight and curiosity that one dives into, surfacing seconds later in fear of brain freeze. Why was that guy frowning at the curb? Why was she smiling at green zombie monkey toy…why is the sky bluer than the ocean, or visa versa. We all have answers and insights, but they never leave our world. The construct that keeps us sane and is the blueprint to our intellect, the self, never sees the light of day. To be high on music and love and air in this sad world and still be alone, to exist beyond this realm, it is Sartre’s hell, Camus’ heaven. We were once alone in that when we shut our eyes the world we lived in was beyond the purview of any other human being, and now we are not, for that world is merging slowly but surely through the simplistic lyrics of the modern song writers, reaching us “On the Radio”, winning the fight against propaganda, media and the chains of society, merely because “the DJ is sleeping” at the station, and you are up late, as are we all.“Truth is an amalgam of earthly elements”, said some Greek philosopher, Plato, Socrates, someone…. “Truth is an amalgam of inane snippets of my life that I alone give a shit about” says I. Who am I? I am that question which is of little importance. Soon, due to the hated existential hipster, the world will know that they wake up together, breathe, and die alone…that the inane snippets that are so dear to us are endearing agents of unity, inflicting us all with thunderous ferocity and urgency.

Yours Truly.

Written in July, 2011