Hipsters

by jenkapotente

It was the music and it was the images that drew us. We were in love with the look of it; the sound of it, packaged before us inside of 90 minutes. We said, “This is me; this is who I am, too”. We staked our claims in the characters, in the fashions, in the storylines. We chose it to define us. And in its definition of us, we thought we revolutionized the art of film. It was no longer just a narrative. It was a narrative about us. And the music was the soundtrack to the story of us. The world had never known this kind of narcissism. And we were drowning in it. And maybe we realized it, but we indulged it all the same. Because everyone else was the same. Because we were craving definition. And we were lacking structure. Because we didn’t have anything else but the threads and lines of stylized art burned into our heads to give us some semblance of profundity.
We were an amorphous blob of a culture, eroding parameters like storms erode coastlines remiss of boundaries set before us. We borrowed from here and took from there and used all that we could to create an unparalleled beauty that was ours. That had roots in so much history that those who did not understand couldn’t see. Because they labeled us substance-less. Because they labeled us disrespectful destroyers. Because they thought us ill-educated. Because they were incapable of perceiving our preservation through new fusion; they were blinded by the shock of what they thought was tarnished.

But in reflection
we all see the connection
and that
none of this is new
because all the narratives
and all the music
were always about
us;
they
set the boundaries;
they
define the lines
we weren’t sure were there
but
always were
and always will be.