Chapter 7
Life was a little complicated.
When life was complicated enough to be a complication, a convoluted thinker would ferment it into a philosophy.
Years earlier, when I was a muddled bud, a sophisticated artist let out a long sigh, saying to me, You seem like nothing. You could be something.
Win or die, there was no middle way between the extremes of something and nothing. Yet, now I was in between, feeling ten years older.
The emptier my pocket had become, the more I resisted poverty. The more I resisted, the more I hated to have a full pocket. The more I hated, the more I wanted to spend and empty myself. There were frequent ups and downs, highs and lows. A desperation for living an extreme life. A circle of negative and positive, pessimistic and optimistic. A constant circulation between uselessness and greatness. A being within nothingness out of nothing. A burden.
