If you haven’t seen Crystal Castles live, then you missed out.
I saw them in Toronto, their hometown, and it was the best gig I’ve seen.
Intimate moments, man.
It’s the invasion of fake tans, teeth bleaching, and an unholy amount of cosmetics. It’s the Instagram filters, the futile pursuit of physical perfection, and lack of humility. I believe in beauty in imperfection. I believe in that birthmark on your left shoulder, and the struggling syncopation of your voice. I believe in my heart that opens to your voice and the way you drug me with your quirky presence. The banality behind wanting to look cool or the need to feel wanted is blasé. It’s fake and it numbs your heart. It’s terribly boring and unattractive because being genuine is sexy. Everything else is boring. There is a constant need to advertise; it’s as if the whole world is actually listening to your voice. I for one know that nobody reads what I write and really, that’s okay. The obsession and craving for compliments worries me. I feel like everyone suffers from self-consciousness these days. It’s either that or maybe I’m just too confident. I don’t even know how to feel sorry for myself. I know who I am. I don’t need to strike a pose in front of flaky wallpaper to look more artistic. I don’t need likes and compliments on selfies to feel good about myself. I’m not captive to anyone. Well, except to her. Damn.