The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

settle down, rodeo clown

At first, I had been nervous for the flood of comments to my inbox that always comes after I publish an article, and this recent one had been pretty controversial, which usually means that my inbox reaches the point where the meter stops counting and broadcasts its digital laziness to me, leaving me to guess just how many emails I have received for the intellectual merit that my readers say I have, which couldn't be less true, as no one on this blog is worthy of any scholarly title, but it's nice to see people label me as some fucking saint or the best college professor they ever had, but I'm sure those names will be stripped from me once I read the comments from my article on capitalism.

There are always these people on the comment section who stumbled upon my article on accident and are either applauding my level of writing or my willingness to express my opinion or sometimes the interesting points I included in the work, and it's always refreshing to see those, as well as the ones focused on another article that isn't as debatable as my capitalism draft.

But then there are the ones that every published writer can expect, the ones that are just bouts of rage transmuted into comment form who really make no sense at all and probably still don't make sense even in the brain of the person that wrote it in their steamy well of anger towards me for being so opinionated as young people apparently should never be, woven into the alternate contradiction that young people only care about trivial matters and need to experience war or something to be credible, and those are the comments to whom I never respond, because honestly...why would anyone waste their time on unintelligible messes of conservative jargon?

I've created something flammable, and I'm not ashamed of that, rather proud that I could enact a deed so much like what Lucien does every day, and I admire Lucien greatly, so as he's approaching me, there's a rest to my jovial emotions for emotions of idolatry.

Lucien saunters into the sitting room, his "impressionism!" mug faithfully gripped in his hand as he tips it towards my computer in a suggestive gesture. "How many comments are in your inbox right now?"

I pivot towards him from the chair, knowing a secret that he doesn't but a secret that I'll share with him to excite him about his work. "So many comments that my inbox can't even count them."

Lucien reciprocates my grin, huffing out slightly in relief as that huff mutates into a display of his pearly teeth, and he throws his hands towards the air in elation. "This is great, Allen! You could really go places with this."

That's the comment I didn't want to hear but the comment that has now been uttered nonetheless. Lucien has just expressed the same sentiment that my parents adopted once finding out about my blog, trying to milk it for fame or glory or money, which was not the original intention of the blog at all. This blog is currently only a backup option for me, and that's why I continue to update it, even while high on the drug called Lucien Carr. I constantly ridicule it for its following, so I expect nothing from it except for a slightly better than nothing fallback point.

But this is just Lucien trying to be a supportive friend, and I can't lecture him on my lowkey trauma related to what he's just said.

Even now, when Lucien doesn't consider my blog to be a success, I have too many comments to read, thousands of followers, a broad expanse of readers in a diversity sense, and I used to have far too much time on my hands to accommodate for them, but now that Lucien has whisked me away into his life of beautiful spontaneity, my time has been robbed of me for the pleasance of art and philosophy, but now he's all of the sudden opposing that, and I know not why. I'm not so sure that Lucien would prefer to supplant his time with me with prolonged sessions of comment reading and article writing, so he must merely be enthralled by the ecstasy of receiving so many comments that they're practically spilling out of my computer.