We want so badly for our world to operate in a way that doesn’t make us feel atomized and rudderless, and so we throw ourselves into a war that cannot be won with our intellect, talent, money or authority alone, and the harder we fight to belong or be respected, the deeper the inner chasm grows. The cultural erosion and the war to be heard have made us contemptuous of others and have created a slow hollowing of our spiritual interior. These methods quench our thirst for truth, but only briefly, until the well runs dry and we are left laying in the dark, on the ground, parched, empty, angry and failed. We rely on the wisdoms of writers, philosophers, Twitter “thinkers” and the stars that shine with all their brilliance at night to show us what is real, to forecast the things we cannot see or explain on our own. We sit with our phones in hand, absorbing their migraine-inducing radiation, tweeting and posting our naive, half-baked perspectives into the ether, wrestling with our id, feeling the dull nagging of something being wrong even as we profess how right and righteous we are for being on the proper side of something none of us fully understand. Aggression and fear are our primary methods of communication as we all fight to maintain our interpretations of reality and try to keep others from infringing on our “right” to live within the truths we’ve built for ourselves.
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These days, it often feels contrived to talk about the state of the culture because everyone feels it is their duty to express their dissatisfaction with the ways of the world. Kanye lets us look into the soul of a man who, underneath the enviable excess, still only desires the warmth of his mother’s arms and the safety of God’s entrenching love. He delivers his message at the perfect time, too, right when the world feels it is moments away from collapsing under the weight of its own strife. Donda illustrates something new, vulnerable and primitive though, beyond the boastful lyrics and manic presidential meetings of Ye’s past self. Everything Kanye does is massive and contagious, always throwing himself into whichever undeterminable direction he sees fit, and the rest of us are left to unravel his mysterious turbulence as he surrenders himself to the chaos of creation, in the pursuit of happiness. His family, too, is as grand and excessive as his erratic personality, with four children of his own and a former marriage into the huge Kardashian-Jenner clan with a combined worth of over $2 billion. Along with music, the world of fashion has been overwhelmed by his artisanal touch as West has collaborated with Adidas, Louis Vuitton, and Gap, recently releasing a collection with creative direction by Nigerian-born designer Mowalola Ogunlesi. West has fervently committed himself to being a tastemaker and craftsman, at times sacrificing his sanity in order to continue following the path to both fulfillment, and a quiet, unafraid inner life.
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Producing music and beginning his tidal-wave effect on the industry roughly ten years before most of us had heard of him in the early 2000s, Mr. As time goes on, everything we do becomes an attempt to surrender ourselves to something or someone, in the hopes that within this surrender, we can return to the nescient peace of our mother’s womb and rid ourselves of the nail-biting hypervigilance of living.
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Eventually, we adapt, learning to crawl, talk, read, and so on, but the stakes of our advancing sentience become deeper and stronger, and though we figure out how to compartmentalize our anxieties, they only grow and never wane.
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At birth, the sterility of the hospital-white lights blaring down into our ignorant eyes feels like more than we could ever tolerate, and we encounter true terror for the first time, too young to handle the pressures, sights and sounds of wakefulness. From the second we escape the warm, dark safety of our mother’s womb to the moment our breath ends and we begin our slow descent into the dirt, there is a constant desire to rid ourselves of consciousness.