Gonzo, part deux

[re/cap]

i finished reading a biography of Hunter Thompson yesterday, about the sad final days of a man who crumbled under the weight of his legend. he spent thirty years spent trying to be the man he invented.

[re/flect]

do we not live sufficient fictions already? are we not born into a world of label and definition, of endless shifting forms on the cusp of the void? of staring into mirrors at night and grasping blades of grass in the morning when sun fractures the horizon? what is this compulsion to layer one deceit on top of another until it becomes impossible to remember who we truly are?

[re/turn]

last year ago, Saylor, Tarah, and i watched a documentary on Dr. Thompson, and i remember the melancholy i felt on the ride home. my Augusts seem to serve as requiem, and this book brought me to that place, the screaming nostalgia of hospital parking lot infidelity, the desperate rage of answering machines, and the asphyxiating love of the saddest girl in the world.