We play at games until death calls us home
There is no pursuit like slithering into a position of visibility. We who are observers engage in particularly slimy slithering in order to change teams and join the they who are observed. And the knock on making a bid for attention is that it betrays some shallow need. Which it often does and is (a betrayal).
I say this as though only callow, talentless turds make bids on attention. Or that being shallow is self-defeating or that “betraying some shallow need” is betraying some stable quality that is more honorable than mooning for eyeballs or plaudits or some sexual healing. But if it’s all in the end a game, an unwinnable game that starts long before and ends long after the blinking ephemerality that is this life, then is the aversion for prostitution-as-popularization status just a question of style? Of not proclaiming and not seeking to be proclaimed? A different distinguishable status-seeking but one that is not less sought after, for that, that defines itself in not selling, not seeking and is therefore a style warped by the same inexorable force that its nemesis-style? A particle repelled by a force outside of itself is no less controlled than one that is attracted.
If this problem is a hole, and these ways of thinking are just different kinds of shovels, one with differently tangible bites on the ground that they seem to excavate, can there be a different kind of tool? How about a hand, with a strong grip?
