The secretion of secrets found in our downward dissipation

In the way we all seek to find and find to seek within a temporal fluctuation in the motivations so often recalled, we found a downward dissipation in the ideals we’ve racketeered into the void between ideas and secrets. In the ever-wandering spiral that swirls like the frowning fractal of facial muscles a swerve of maniacal laughter echoes within the mania that encompasses the forbidden revelations.

We aught not to search for the drive behind every notion of disparity; between the lines unwritten we seek to find the cause and causality of our own inherent behaviour without accounting for the accreditation for our feelings. There shall be no wall we built ourselves to separate a true desire, curtained by a thin veil of social interaction, and the true smokescreen blown out forward from our fears based on adherence.

From dusk until dawn the spoon feeds and feeds and giggles when we regurgitate in an anxious move to step out from under the anvil of a near Oedipal risk: merely the thought of rebellion keeps us swallowing and admitting to ourselves we like the negative attention while the wooden spoon rusts the inside of our intestines and mouth. Teeth have and will rot and our tongue is coarser than the will of iron-clad concrete. We have been bested. No more times into the breach nor one more day onto the beach, poetry in the life of our own envisioned saints has planted the life and knife in our back.

With it, the knife that separated and segmented our already broken back, we wield the fury and the wish of our own mind within the frame we’ve been set upon. Our rebellion started shortly after it ended, a bloody revolt taken place only in the profound sanctity of our victimised mind. We can no longer hold onto our own-found values, a mere state of none-existence has found our brain in its most addled state.

Plant the banner of war, stake a claim to grounds already desecrated by the faeces of our forefathers. All is futile. We merely adhere to lines in the fleeting smoke, a circular jerking motion in the face of futility as we try to exclaim our patriotism within a null-state. Zero times anything still equals zero; the effort has gone to waste and so has our energy of youth in an attempt to set apart our own lives from those around us. We, you, have failed.

Your rebellion has crumbled into the dust and all the fights you think you fought you valiantly were nothing but a bitter depiction of your own uncertainty. Instead, you will find I have won. The sidelines to life have given naught but prosperity in the field of knowledge, and my, our, refusal to blow the horns of war have left us with a kingdom of ashes. The trees and ground set aflame, the ground blasted to glass and the sky scorched into a purple hue of violence. But we stand. We abide.

The ashes have become a home, a refuge within the flames. A storm of dust and flaming particles whirls ourselves into a weathered and withered version of ourselves, stripped of the abundance of youth and the unneeded mental fat that slowed down the thought-processes in our adolescence. We have become the skimpy branch that refuses to break in the sight of the hurricane, underestimated and withdrawn, survivor of the floods of change.

You? You are the fat but hollow trunk that fed it leafs too much of its insides to remain standing in the breeze of our anal excrements. The secretion of secrets pouring from every crack and crevice makes your bark buckle under the weight of a downward dissipation into the nothingness we were born from. Your roots rot and drown in the most your body can no longer support, unable to maintain the upward-bound glory of your shining foliage. No grasses or weeds sprout near the decay of your mental body and soon, soon you will die and end. Your existence comes to a halt, your legacy forgotten, your body decayed.

Our futures are the same, but at this point in fleeting time, we have become the victor of a battle we have yet to fight, a battle fought for us and beyond us.

We have won. Soon we will lose.

The malignant memory of social seclusion

Between the sounds of broken promises lies the smallest kernel of truth, infantilised by the internal desire to procure the most desirable outcome for an instinct. Neither nature nor nurture has conquered a foothold in the kingdom of seclusion, forever attempting to reign supreme in the farthest outreaches of the solitary mind.
Within its premise lies the conquistador’s dream, a vague reminiscence of unheralded times. In this stale pit of decrepit fears and anxieties we find the footsteps of one that has gone before. Seclusion in this realm becomes the necessity of unuttered doubts, the essence of survival without understanding. The instinctual feelings of pact-like behaviour redeem themselves in the blood of the unwashed, the unclean and the unborn. What little understanding can be clung to is defiled by the presence of our own mind, the ever-thinking reason that we find perseveres between the lines where no lines were in the first place.

It is there we come across the lonesome. In their state of decay we clearly encompass the unlived and unloved memories of times to come. Times that, in their perverted self-righteousness, have never come to pass. The creation and thought of entire worlds that hold the desires of those who find no utterance in worlds true, whose creation is the only purpose of their being. In that near-perfect life a reflection of loneliness shines bright and fervent. The mirror-image of their souls feels naught but pity for long-lost dreams and desires, hung in public display on black and red ropes.
We then see the interaction of the lonely, an interaction purely based on wanton interaction. A life based on communing with their own unconscious dreams and nightmares. None beckon to their call, none adhere their whale-call on an awkward bandwidth.

These kindred spirits smile the brightest and live the most of normal lives, yet hear no echoing return in their wailing. The void – that malignantly familiar memory of solitude – touches the skin or their heart, and familiarity is its answer.

Escape comes in the form of a faint whisper, the promise of culminating ambiguity, slithering its way towards a misguided goal. Life bends, rips through the fabric of a known state of being, and explains the false premise on which its fettering ideals await. The light at the end of the circular tunnel isn’t bright, it isn’t anything but black upon black, but the paler shade of seclusion harks and we answer. We answer in whispers and screams, equally loud yet unheard.
Somewhere between the first and the last step we manage, if only for a moment, to outrun the ever-returning call of intimate fears. Within the imprint we leave behind our tears to fall onto deaf ears and we are free. No matter the length of the moment, no cause or effect of the unchaining reality within the promise of our desires, in this state of time we are free of self-cast chains. There is no meaning to bliss but this moment in a state of blissful un-feeling.

Reality in a state of mind is the sword wielded by a look, a word, a memory, hacking away at the sudden new-found bliss. Masked, as always, comes a rider onto the stage. The loud whistle of a deadly steel-born force is no warning if a warning was to be had. Disappearance is a game best played by the certain, the confident, those willing to forego the insecurities that feed the many-headed reflection of our promiscuous dreams. The dream we all share, the dream none of us have.

When the flashes of battle subside in a wake of surrender, another hallucination has been added to our collection of dreams to be dreamt in social seclusion. It is the dream that nurtures us, that feeds us in shreds of possibilities and chance. It is the very dream that hollows out our bones and minds with a simultaneous realisation there is no truth within itself. A hollow drug that whispers to our addicted mind of splendour and magnificence, feeding on our addled bodies and brains until the dust we are returning to seems the softest of beds we have yet encountered.

In this dream we live, truly live. Our dreams surpass your wildest realities. Our dreams feed your legends and fairy tales. Our dreams die in succession of each-other, breaking off ever larger pieces of ourselves, so yours might have a base to be built upon.

Neither dreamer nor dream is awake or asleep.

The hypocritical allure of selective blindness

There is no blindness akin to the unseeing portrayed by those with a selective need to criticise the paradigmatic convictions in social environments. Life is as it should be, without human standard which can be applied to it. The incessant versions of complaining inherent to our advancing social structures deem themselves worthy to be flung into existence without warning or merit of review with a mirror.
To counteract the counter argument within acting on arguments, there is a swelling case to be made against the presence of this topic within the explanation. The unbiased version of the presented present and future features the realisation that hypocrisy must be found and, in seemingly healthy manner, addressed in the mirror frame of our own contested social structure: the written and freely shared word.

In the furthering of exploration the various levels of explanation there are but a few levels worthy of their own definition. Bias being the key that unlocks doors but selectively, care must be taken to prevent breaking the lock with the wrong key.
In short; here we conclude upon the settling prejudice found in the nature of most complaints: hypocrisy.

Selective blindness, and its partner is alluring crime; bias, come on your terms and exhibit a growing reluctance to their requested absence. In such an argument is raised against their nature, revealing the underlying ailment shown as a precursor to their existence: the reluctance or sheer unwillingness to learn and adjust.

As an example, we can determine the average within complaints. The forming of an opinion on the matter of a subject we seek personal relevance to and the subsequent voicing or wording of said opinion in the form of a complaint. While in theory being nothing but the logically expected result of the clash of opinions, elevation to the realm of bias can be easily found in the sociological aftermath.
In specifics this winds down to the birth of selective blindness. Once on the devout path of seeking out the flaw within the subject of our initial opinionated outlet we see the creeping in of a feeling that surpasses simple blindness. The blindfold wrings itself closer to our eyes as we seek out our own failure to forgive the imagined trespassing of the aforementioned subject. We are no longer reluctant, instead we have progressed into the realms of leading the blind without eyes to see our own actions.
Our fated results are clear in the mirror but our blinded eyes register naught but our self-righteous zealotry to convince our surroundings of the basic need in our devolved state of being; the heightened senses clinging to social approval.
A cure presents itself through the eyes of others when merging with the disappointed release of our virtual state of sinning. The mirror presented to us is fully ornate yet functional beyond compare. Late as it always seems to come, realisation hangs still in the stale air when our eyes are forced to play catch-up with our subconscious truth.
Preventing the cure would be the ideal way of curing, like the paradox that confuses yet explains. An adjustment of our field of vision on a daily basis becomes the basic ingredient of social survival, a prevention of biased stagnation to end the encroaching hypocrisy sneaking in through the cracks of our internal mirror.

Freedom of speech comes at the price of having to know the consequences we craft in a furnace of blindness in an attempt to prevent our preciously asinine skin becoming burned by another wielding the same hammer.

An intermission of self-explanatory torment

The fight continues; not as some gross close-up of flailing limbs, but as the calm and steady distanced cloud in an almost clear sky. The vague sounds of battle and carnage filter out into the background as our eyes focus on the speed of occurrences. The clash of flesh and bone serves as the intermediary between our world and the world we thought we would encompass. For a moment, a relapse into the memory of our genetic coding, it feels like we missed our stop. The train sped up as we tried in vain to get off at a stop that would allow us the choice, the freedom of choice, to see which direction we would be going. But forced as we were, we stayed on and rode it to a point we’ve never seen or been to before.

The predictability in our confusion is palpable; the air is thick with our surprise as the station we disembark in feels strange. The tiles hold a different colour, the streets a different sound. Birds fly in awkward patterns as our gaze explores the ever distant horizon. A coppery taste of distrust enters our mouth as our biologically programmed systems try to ascertain the quality of the air. The train has since left us here, stranded in a foreign land still known somehow. Its hollow sounds can be heard down the track, railing away to yet another destination not meant for us.
We are here because we are. Because we are meant to be here. We’ve grown to this point while riding a course we had no control over, yet our minds scream in the sheer agony of not knowing within the realm of knowing. Knowledge is the herald we’ve brought in our arms, finding our stature to hold onto while asking questions we know the answer to.

It wasn’t the question, nor the answer, that drove us here. The train was a vessel we procured in order to be able to look back on looking back. That ever outward distance we call the past, realising only at some point we visited it before. The logical answer in our minds has been denied. This is new, this is not the way we set out to find or follow. It is merely the path we’ve crossed on our way to becoming what we set out to be.

With a reeling mind, teeming with the possibilities of an unsure future and yet, still, looking back on the present, our first step shall be our last. The way is clear and the way is the present. Our past matters not and our future doesn’t yet exist. With the tenures of strained muscles we set in motion the first stride into more predictable surprises. Our reactions, our emotions, the very core of what everything around us tells us makes the collective humankind human, seem unnecessary as we divulge into a singular muscle motion.
All that rides on this step, all future and past possibilities fade into a consciousness of being aware. The choices we are yet to make and the ones we are yet to have made, naught it seems carries the same plural-enforced weight of this motion. The parts we are at now, the air and the birds, the slight waving in the trees and the soothing, yet slightly new, rustle of leafs is what perpetuates our choice. Stay or go. Predictability of the self-explanatory torment of a new intermission in life.

The stagnation of our muscle-bound movement reaches a new spark of influence as our foot plants itself on the foreign soil. What before was strange and unknown becomes familiar and seems to have a taste of something we’ve known our whole lives. The uncertainty of prediction, the probability of our demise, fades into the background. It has become all we have known, and all we will ever know, in the span of a minute moment.
It is this very moment that defines our past, not yet our present. The boundaries have been set, too far off yet too close. This is what we have become. You, I, and you. We are, this moment, in this single step towards infinity, the predicted path we never thought we would walk. Our steps trespass on our own ideas of what we were supposed to be. Alienated by each other and ourselves we move on.

And this is, truthfully, the reality we must face like the dawning bright light of a sunrise denied. There is no other path available to us than the one heralding what we’ve become. Neither future nor present will allow us to reconcile with our past, it is merely the yellow brick road that leads to what was once home. The door was slammed shut and the alarms set with a code we’ve lost to the realms of other things we’ve never known.

It is this realisation of reality that forces us into a stability of personality. We are, aren’t we? All the previously sought-for dimensions and possibilities never harnessed such pyrogenic potential or who we were to be. Recognition isn’t within the scope of sight as all we can cling to us what we ever were.

The change frightens us; it is the torment that has been inflicted upon us without our permission. We change and evolve, followed by a rupture of more change. We never thought this was the person we would see ourselves become. It wasn’t planned this way; even though we weren’t the ones laying out the plans for future instigation.
For the sake of clarity, of sanity and the demise of confusion, we seek to harness ourselves within who we are now. New ideals, new emotions, new bodies. Like a mathematical equation we differentiate between what our own expectations told us and what the future is showing us. What of the ideals, the ideas, the idealistic property and the ideal person? We are no longer any of those.

It is but the passing of time that grants us the ability to choose and compare. Albeit a slight passing, we envelop our own space with a prejudice that whispers to us we are in control, full control, of who we are to become. Denying and ignoring the obvious genetic and nurtured markers implanted into us at the youngest of ages, we chose a stride, as future for us while looking deeply into the mirror of wishes. Failure abound as we sail into a personality, a characteristic of change, we never knew we could become.
The unlimited thinking resources put to our disposal have been discarded onto a pile of useless hopes and freed dreams, relinquishing only those points of acceptance we see fit to carry with us. And to what end to we stuff our faces with these misguided ideas of what we will become. Futility is the master whose leash commands our behaviour.

We’ve successfully set foot on new lands. The image behind us doesn’t look like us. It is a faded dream of what we once were. The image in front of us doesn’t recognise the ones looking at it. In the mere lifespan between then and there, it shows us that the possibilities are infinite, but never including the ones we thought an option, a likelihood of ourselves.
Instead, we have become the change we never knew we could be, changing ever into a flurry motion of fight. Between the instinct of survival and the survival of instinct, we chose a path we will not recognise in whatever time holds yet to come.

The intervention in our intermission of torment is but one of temporary predictability, as we set towards a new self, step by step, wondering who it was we once were.

The demobilising scrutiny of repetitive futility

The stampede continues. From the shadows into the light steps forward our gaze on the horizon. Lack of lust and lack of lack set us free within the cage we seek to expand. Ever outward the clouds drift on the thermals of a mental thunderstorm without recoil. The unfinished meal of our cyst – the stream of defied adherence controlled by stigma upon dogma – lingers but a moment before giving in to the battery of pests and plagues.

Slowly a stale mould covers our eyes, filling us with the still-born tools needed for repetitive scrutiny, as we see the world through the eyes of our reflected discontent. Fill up our hearts, fill up our minds, as we linger in the dusk of yet another forgotten embrace, where the fake smiles of our reflections taunt us and show the misery we’ve sought so to gain.
The marching band progresses forward, stepping on the broken cobblestones of regret, while their shapes remind the dim fog of discarded skulls. In our discord with survival we disbanded our goals and sense of reason, only to be found fit to trample our clones; inherently disproportionately mirrored souls on the same path.

As we listen to the Riddler’s song, we lay on the soil with arms folded, denying our very existence of air, venting only our own futility in the demobilisation we have accepted to be our progress. The stagnation sucks off our shoes as the sink-hole furthers itself onto our carapace.

It is within this stagnation we find, we are forced to find, the normality of forsaking progress to bequeath on our bodies the repetitive futility of neighbourly scrutiny. Hung on black and red ropes to show our passionate discontent is our rightful heir; the first-born of our minds swinging from side to side as its feet dance a dance of loss, jerking and kicking, seeking revelation at the end of life.

Lo and behold, the knight wearing a shining armour of conformity dashes forward on a dead steed of pestilence, his lance a beacon of weary dread to elevate us above and beyond. Time passes as time should while the ever-lasting struggle of our dis-portrayed survival scars itself a way through our days. In endless lines we stomp forward, our greatest reward the futility of life and the fertility of an end that is unforeseen. With the promise of uniqueness and beauty we trample the very ideals set for life in order to attain for naught but the self a way of maintaining the boring equilibrium.
Let us stand then, in lines and throngs, to forsake the path set out by forebear and father and linger in the tears of the mother pooling at the feet of her carcass.

In our final revelation we see the dead-end road of our progeny, the gravel path that skitters away in a surge of pebbles as our unsullied feet seek to pay homage to the journey. Gone are our grand dreams of purpose and fate, the light behind our eyes through which we’ve waded and built upon. Instead, we gained the upper hand in a fight with futility, relinquishing ourselves – and our long-lost dreams – to the bathing cold of repetitive pastures.
Great and many are our numbers, the army of fools running with beheaded minds under rotting arms. We stack the books while reading their lines, ever seeking a way over the wall set to loom over us by expectation and promise.

All is futile.

The drudge – sedated by a false sense of security and progress – knows its way through the endless cycle-maze in which the centre and its inherent rewards are subjected to a constant shift. Slaughtered are our entrepreneurial spirits and visions of grandeur, sullied by the footsteps of those willing to sacrifice life in order to live. Forever more the voice in the back of your head whispers of sweet achievements; the useless material things needed to feel secure in a life that is empty. Gather your wealth and procure, procreate, then die wailing with the realisation of a demobilised scrutiny and the repetitive futility you wielded as a tool to end your very existence. Measure the worth of your non-existent state in the things you’ve gathered, the people you met and the endless years you spent in line to reassure yourself and the ones that follow; a reassurance cracked at the seams, broken in all places.

Forsake your dreams. Give in. Give up. Render yourself unto the coma and be sung to by the lullaby hailed on trumpet and banner. You need not escape the drudgery of your monotone life; you have all you need within a moment’s grasp.

Follow us in the footsteps of ourselves and hail a farewell to the indoctrination of schooling and nurture as we cling to the deathly procession march in a moment of rebellion. Slay the dragon in your dreams and find a job; slave away at the endless conformity, looking from day-to-day ever forward to a moment of freedom and wonder about the end of the horizon. See the dragon’s blood fuel your meaningless end as you define yourself, categorised as a sickeningly happy slave and revel in the fecal matter you redeem to be a relationship. Celebrate, feast and marvel in the creation of your offspring as the greatest accomplishment of your worthless lifetime. Tell them of dreams and goals, set them apart from the multitude of fools who were told the same disgusting lies over and over, only to fail at the hand of promise you forced down their throat.
Die miserably, knowing you left no mark, set no precedent, caused no revelation.

As we stand over your corpse singing our praise and uttering words we heard from others, the slow killer that is a thought creeps around in our heads, knowing, gnawing, telling us we have failed to make proud ourselves from a present past. Yet still, all we retain to do is a return to our non-existence, reassuring ourselves our dreams were not meant to be, our freedom an illusion, our goals a worthy sacrifice in order to continue ourselves.

You will not break the cycle. Your dreams will die with you in a festering pool of scrutinised futility, because you, as am I, are the spoils of war, handed down from generation to misanthropic generation, only to adhere to the whispers of those around you. We must die in order to be free; we must end in order to start. Futility prevails.

The prodigious paranoia of solitude

With a fist full of smoke we dance around the bonfire, aloud with the sounds of our own revelling in the fecal matter projected onto the shifting sands. The smoke dissipates but slowly and the burning curtain is lifted off the stage, doused weakly by the tears of our regret.
The paranoia sets in as we rake the dirt again and again, prevailing only to set ablaze our feet with the whisper of blisters, the agony of our diminishing return to the path visited beforehand.

Within the crevasses of our minds we dig for the treasure we lost but never had. We dig in scores, throngs of people hiding behind that falsehood of a shared treasure. As one we reduce ourselves to simple statements of shared misery, seemingly only to alleviate our suffering while pertaining our innermost desire for greed and welfare.
Our nails are broken and the dirt is clawing away at our skin. The worms howl in disbelief as we forcefully relocate their aerated soil.

Moisten your eyes with the agony of realisation that futility rules your every whim. Fall back onto your knees and repent in the sight of your own undoing. Failure, sweet failure, is the name we speak into the wind, the name we give our children as we fill their heads with dreams and possibilities, with demands, regrets, expectations and boundaries.

Failure.

The war-drums of our constipated ideals sound alive in the stale air of our hive. Like drones we hide behind the walls we built, walls of glass, walls of doors. Nothing is private any more, none may hide the slightest facet of their inner self for fear of being rejected. The wrecking ball that tears through our pre-set survival instincts knocks on the door and tells you that you are walking a path that leads to ostracism. The eviction from social paradise once more.
We are our own heresy, uniformly disagreeing to whatever purpose we laid out before our children’s eyes. Demanding our progeny to mix in the values of that proclaimed society as we try so badly to hide ourselves from the prying eyes around us. The solitude we deny the next only to make it our own.

The paranoia grows. We allow ourselves to become digitalised, recorded and processed in the mechanical eye of the beholder; turning around only when we notice we are beset by the eyes of commerce, used for purposes we avoided to recognise. Again it grows as we thrust the ones around us into the mingle, the mix of others, as we expose them to all that we know exists already. Regret is my middle name as I introduce myself once more, as I speak the words imprinted on my digital mortality. The outcome is welded onto the foundations of my own paranoia, my own solitude. My downfall will be the adherence to the things written on my body; a paranoid solitude its reward.

Yet still it is exactly that fear; the solitude and following paranoia, that get us to become ousted, cast out from the ideas and ideals that surround us all. We are told, taught, forced, to interact. For the sake of our sanity. “Being alone is not a good thing; you will not make it out there on your own.”
One cannot see the inherent evils of the hive, the mass, when standing in the centre, participating without a say in things. The bigger issue, the whole puzzle – limited to the parts our mind can encompass – cannot be seen from the middle of things.
The solitude allows you to see, observe, through the distance of a bound will, what direction the storm is shifting in. We continue to dance to what we think are primal rhythms, wielding the fires we worship like the hill tribes and cavemen, unable to see the sinking sand barring down on a course of destruction, shifting our pace and direction with but a grain of sand at a time.

The smallest of crystalline matter moves as we revel in the freedom we worked so hard to get; the lie we desperately need to be able to cope with the dooming reality of our own stupidity. We are only as free as we are told to be, as we are told we are. Nothing more we can ever attain without being told that it is the very pinnacle of freedom; of desire and the way to live. We introduce ourselves to the ways of slavery – both to society and to ourselves – only to be able to rebel against them when the unforeseen consequences finally do catch up with our dance.

We dance hand in hand, toe to toe, and cast the outcast a glance of disinheritance from our utopia of rebellion. We claim ourselves free while hammering the chains around our ankles and eyes. Pay no heed to the lone figure standing on the crest of the dune, overlooking our progress into the sinking soil; it knows not of the freedom we celebrate. It is but one of the misguided ones, lost in its own sense of disagreement.
The worms have grown. Their tunnels devour the cores of planets, their path the clash of tectonic powers. On its back rides the lie we chose not to see. The rider commands and the worm obeys. Failure is the breath we smell before it rends our flesh.

The stranger on the dune has but to turn to face another group. Another rebellion, another set of ideals, so unique they have become exactly like every other one it has seen. In the end, it is only an observer. Change comes where it is begotten.

In its solitude it hears paranoia whisper. It whispers of the cause and the effect. It whispers of prophecy and prodigy. It whispers in screams.

That nihilistic moderation

Like null-minded cattle in ever greater quantities we adore the individuals that stand out. Worse even, we enamoured ourselves to unrealistic expectations and/or lay a hereditary claim to land, defining borders only we ourselves can see. Through endless indoctrination passed on as the most common of activities such as futile sports events and international competition we re-enforce those boundaries by demeaning ourselves in the sight of the larger whole.

While in fact I am a great advocate of the implementation of a human hive-mind, unlocked our final potential through the diminishing of the individual, our current current is taking us in the wrong, and potentially harmful direction.
Switch on your infernally infested TV and see with your own eyes the decadent descent into fan-girl madness. Hordes of creatures clamouring to get as close as possible to whatever icon they chose to depict their inner desires. Worse even, these fools don their wicker suits wearing smiles that show an over-abundance of chromosomes before jumping through every ring of fire laid in their path, pretending their voice and unguided opinions have any resemblance to positive impacts.

How simple the answers and the show become when wearing unfledged glasses, peering through the mist of illusions and marketing. The basic idea behind the effective overmind is the realisation every human being is merely part of humanity. No single individual is worthy of praise or scolding, instead the race carries the potential as well as the punishment of the race’s own accomplishments and failures. Like ants carrying a year’s worth of food in endless lines, unaware of themselves, only the hive, we could march into a future that would actually allow the species to survive the doom we ourselves brought forth.

Instead, we’ve replaced it with adherence to hereditary or imaginary accomplishments. A few days ago I spoke to some people who seemed to be inherently proud of their country’s accomplishments, not to mention “their people’s” future possibilities. While in very low measurements I suppose I could find it in me to understand the need to belong and identify with a specific region of land and the people that hail from it, I failed to see the purpose of it.

With almost minimal effort we could transcend the ideals that were spoon-fed into our brains and subconscious and see ourselves from a distance. Divided we stand. For the somewhat slower people here, I mean patriotism and any kind of extremist fan behaviour.

When it comes down to it, there is no, nor can there be, any reason to proliferate our own nations and people in the ways we do. We revel in the victory of our nation’s – or region’s – team in whatever sports competition, only to show that ‘we’ are better than ‘them’. Alongside this sponsored madness comes the idolisation of sports figures and musicians or artists alike. We project our own feelings and disappointments and nurse them with someone else’s accomplishments, realising not that we are but the mirror that wipes itself clean.

This seems like a good point to point out a point which runs parallel to my previous points. I see no harm in liking, or maybe even a little more than liking, certain things. Whether it be sports, music, arts or anything else your twisted minds feels it can or should relate to. However, like often the case found with religion, moderation, nay, nihilistic moderation, is called for.
Realise with me, and through me, everything ends. Nothing matters, nothing you do will ever matter beyond the blink of a universal eye nor will anything you do be remembered beyond the lifespan of a satellite in space.

Use this, apply this, when conferring with yourself in your endless stupidity when you’re dumb-struck with infatuation for something temporary. Instead of revelling in ‘your’ people’s pride and accomplished facts – which as a funny side-dish are most often attained by trampling on others – look down on our entire species and perhaps realise you are nothing. Your individual pride, even the pride of the entirety of your people means nothing. Zero, nill, absolutely and completely nothing. That pride will not grant you immortality, it will not prevent you from ageing, nor will it stop your nation from crumbling into the decadent dust where all the other great and proud nations now lay; being stepped on by the ash-stained feet of the ones that come after us. Nothing.

On that broken and cracked path lay the same immoral references to music, arts and films. How gladly we idolise some actor or singer, painter or otherwise pretentious prick that depicts something from his or her own mind, seeking affirmation in the liking and love of others, the assimilation of opinions into their own cesspool of degrading perversion.
For the life of me I cannot understand, nor do I have much of a desire to do so, why we look up to someone who got lucky and thus popular. Being a word-smith I realise certain combinations of words and letters form such striking poetry – whether intentional or not – that we, even I, become entranced with every possible meaning and outcome of the spoken and written language. However, this does in no way warrants our behaviours which lead to points of icon-creation and far worse, identification-replacement.

This last point is what bothers me most whenever I happen to speak to one of those poor void-souls that have clamped themselves onto an idea, onto the marketing of a person. “But he is so handsome.”, “She is so talented.”, “It speaks to my soul.”, “I would give anything to be like that.”. In truth, there is no wrong to be found in either the specific professions mentioned here, nor the enjoyment of such execution. Take care though, the limits are visible, they are clear, we merely wish not to see them.

Film serves as a distraction more than inspiration. Music has conferred and dwindled down into masturbation of the artist’s own ego, and art has become the depiction of whatever insanity we can seem to appropriate and explain. What rests us to do is simply pack and move on. Pack up your ideas of glory, nations, borders, music, your ideas of what art is or isn’t, should or shouldn’t be, remember the heroes from your youthful guilty pleasures, of young and old, but remember your gaze does not belong in the skid-marked crotch of any individual.
If we are to ascend into what I know we can be, what many before me have said is to be our true destination, we should keep our gaze fixed on the horizon, or ourselves within the machinations of the universal mind we can all access. There is no destination for your decomposing body and soul, your place is nowhere. You are nothing and into nothing you will disappear, but the yellow brick road ever leads onwards to home, to a point where we can say ‘we didn’t do it, we haven’t even started, but we got there.’. We. Not him, not you, not I. We.

The simplest of words it is – we – but how often we place it in the wrong way. We is not whatever people you think you belong to. You are human, like the rest of us. In varying shapes, colours and origins, but nothing more shall we ever be.
Look beyond your own stupidity-enforced infatuations with whatever hype you are forced to believe now and realise that true potential cannot be found in the glorifying of any single individual, or even group. Then again, this is not some motivational speech to be processed and passed on, adding your own versions and opinions, adding and excavating whatever meaning you think you need to see in order to progress and your own version of you. Nihilistic moderation, the true uncaring nature we can so easily attain unless it becomes personal, is the way out of these repetitive sewers we traverse, seeking for the treasures long eaten by rats and the filth cast our by ourselves.

You are nothing. We are nothing. From nothing is the only place we can climb higher; clinging to faeces will not elevate own status to anything higher than the kingdom of excrement.

Keystroke coincindence

Deep in the earthen bowels of a mysterious city a lone fighter stands, the very figure of solitude, listening to the whispers echoing in the city; messages of greed, lust, anger and more. Destiny nor fate seem to mingle in the actions taken and routes followed, yet still there is a shimmer, the faintest idea that seems to grow and grow, waiting to pounce. That right moment will come soon. None know of their participation yet, but it comes.

There, in the dark and vague silence, a rumour prevails. It grows in strength and luminescence, ever present in the ear of the warrior, stronger, again it comes, stronger still. From the dark corners of life fate pounces forward and sinks its teeth into the lives of all involved. While our blood flows unseen, the coincidence behind a keystroke inflames minds with a sudden encounter. All it took was a single keystroke to change a lot. To change everything.

Our perception of time has been the single most pervasive evolutionary process we seem to be able to control. Ever faster we send our opinions and emotions through a raging electronic network, to have them analysed, to have them spread, or merely because we fear things cannot exist outside the eyes of the observers.
Though most of us – like any other ant trapped in this endless wind stream of change – seem to view this evolution as progress, as a step forward in the direction humanity was destined to take, we seem to miss some crucial points.

Like any surreal environment that allows buildings, networks and relationships to be built upon it, we must take ever greater care to see to our own survival as we act out the role of a parasite. Make no mistake, at this point this is what we are. We attach ourselves to others faking a socialised version of symbiosis while leeching away all sense of direction from our fellow parasites.

I digress. What concerns me most about whatever is built on the luck, the coincidence of a chance encounter, the fragile bonds that form the beginning, are the consequences of this crystal string holding things together.
However vague this may sound – even with the knowledge that any building or relationship can outgrow its base in order to be a stand-alone complex – one cannot deny the undefined purpose behind these pillars of creation.This I know first hand. I too am the consequence and result of a keystroke coincidence. Though in a sense it has given me a purpose – which for those who do not personally know me is quite something – yet on the other hand it has brought greater dangers with it as well. “Spin the wheel of fortune; we’ll learn to navigate.” seems to sound appropriately dual here. I will take life as it comes and goes, but will I cause ripples with consequences I have feared for so long?

Everything changed without having had trouble. Changing myself, however, turns out to be hard with this little sanity left.

our paper heart

Forever we fold our own characteristics like origami. Fold upon fold upon fold, if only to hide layers and personality size behind a shroud of something appeasing and accepted.
Only when we think we’ve perfected this acceptable image do we dare present it to others. Realisation of error comes only upon granting closer inspection of the may levels and folds to someone we deem worthy of such recognition and exploration.

Somewhere within the folds of any classic and often predefined concept we lost track of which bend to take on our way back. Our own permitted journey of discovery is halted when – with passion – we see the only way back to the start of this narcissistic maze is to cheat.
Tearing our character at the seams sounds like the only appropriate plan of attack. One look in the mirror suffices to say that what at first glance was a beautiful animal made of the finest paper and craft, is now a wetted monster with tears and cracks, lost by a playful schoolgirl on her way home.

With ferociously pink-clad claws and teeth we ravenously attempt to unfold our own character. Folly comes as folly goes, yet we know we must share our blank sheet in order to progress in any for of relationship. The lie is no longer sufficient, we lack conviction and determination to keep it up as we lie to ourselves over and over again about being true.
Why? Because we feel. We feel we need to be true. True to ourselves, to our hearts, to our minds. To our insignificant goals and equally worthless dreams. But only after we’ve finished hiding who we are, do we want to accomplish this.

So very carefully our fear-driven fingers move, seeking to harness power over ourselves through lies and deceit. There is no option where we could be honest and open from the start. People will seek to abuse one or more of our character traits, like a child stuck in an incestuous routine of plays it does not understand. Suddenly, then, comes another into play, and we so vehemently scurry to be more open, more honest, and less of the animal we’ve chosen to hide behind.

The lie is no longer good enough so for all the wrong reasons we start tearing it apart. Bit by bit the mosaic-shaped origami of our lives and thoughts is de-constructed by hands, words and actions clumsy compared to those that built it.
This becomes our new goal. The excavation of me, so that another person might see – and hopefully like – what lies beneath. Not for ourselves, oh no, for that would be too grand and new-age an idea. Yet, something is wrong. The grand unveiling of our own lies adheres not to any form, shape or plan and the tears in the paper widen as curiosity goes to havens unseen. Panic ensues as more and more limbs fall off our once beautiful primal expression of deceit, laying rotting and rioting on the floor in a puddle of self-loathing.

In a flash of recognition we are alone again. The barriers so flimsily erected to defend us from unwanted interaction and knowledge have turned out to be the growing cancer in our bone-marrow, wreaking havoc and destruction from within.
Did we learn? Did the days, weeks, months or even years of chemotherapy and crying in a dark corner of our mind educate us to a point where we no longer hide ourselves? Nope.

We simply start over like a brain-damaged monkey high on lobotomy and electroshock therapy; we decide it better to try again. But this time, we do it differently. Out of fear of the same thing happening again, we stick to a cruder design. One that uses less folds, simpler paper. In other words, we hide less. The standards applied to ourselves are lowered as we accept beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and a simple concept can house as much intricacy as anything else. We might as well call it a mental Bauhaus syndrome.

Did it work? Did this renewed plan, executed with headache fervour hold? Did it unravel in the way we wanted it to? Nope.
The same thing happened. Everything fell apart and we were left with a confusing amount of paper snippets and cuts. And still we try again. And again. Each time we make it a little easier, the design a little less complicated and the lie a little less encompassing. Then, as we reach our limit of simplicity and discovery comes to us unguided, we finally do what we should have done in the first place.

We erect a gargantuan monument, dedicated to ourselves. Every inch of it in covered in detail, plain and visible to even the blindest of rats. Carved in stone, steel and the iron plating of bitter years, this grotesque sculpture seems to shout out we no longer care.
No more care for the injustice of human hearts, deceit and lies we so hypocritically helped build; only the bare-bone acceptance of ourselves in our truest, naked form, alongside the knowledge beauty doesn’t exist and someone will still like us.

Maybe we should just stop teaching our children how to fold.

A reign of fear

Though often before complained about and mused upon I tend to offer the same result with a different resolution; anxiety as spread through the mass propaganda of a new age, one heralding whatever grips our near sterile minds.
This is however a double-bladed sword, cutting both ways without nearly enough discrimination one would expect of such a powerful weapon. I reckon the word discrimination has gotten quite the negative connotation due to circumstances well understood; but let us look at the actual meaning of it.

“Discrimination is the prejudicial treatment of an individual based on his or her membership – or perceived membership – in a certain group or category.” For that reason discrimination applies to nearly all things commonly seen as human affairs, be it sports or races.
As does it apply to this specific weapon of mass indoctrination. Allow me to firstly explain what weapon that is, as upon reading this – more specifically rereading this – I come to understand I’m being rather vague, again.

Within the familiar bounds of social interaction we often find people concerned about their safety, health or the safety of humanity in general. This in turn is accredited to the spreading of fear by using mass- and modern media. Newscasts continually report on incidents of violence, rape, murder, wars and other less-wanted states in life.
By using this continuous spreading of ‘bad’ news, people have become afraid of even the simple act of breathing aloud. Who knows, it could be a symptom of a disease, or even worse, the herald of your own undoing.

Henceforth comes into play the double-bladed sword as spoken of before. On the one side of the gleaming metal we find the direct consequences – or results – of those fears and the affirmation of said feelings. People tend to not do things, fear doing things or experience a general undefinable anxiety towards certain happenings.
Take for instance the crowd-pleaser called the Spanish Flue. Within a population ranging into the billions, a few suffered of this modified version of the flue, and a few others suffered fatal consequences of it. However, through manipulation and spreading of mass reports, ones even heard in certain outreaches of the inhabited planet, people became aware at first, and afraid after.

This in turn resulted into a mass confusion and its own results. Moreover, those results caused even more fear. Citizens were hearing stories about others stocking up on materials, food, water, and so on. In return, those hearers of tales started fearing even more. All the while there was little to fear. One could be advised to be cautious, especially those near or in close contact with those who factually did contract the actual disease, but nothing warrants the anxiety one could almost physically feel nationwide.

Then there is the underside of the metal weapon. The one where light tends to shy away from because it is, simply put, not accepted as being the valid argument is actually is. Ominous as it may sounds, there are good sides to this version of the story.

As with all things innately human, and therefore also innately animal or instinctual, fear is a boundary. Though sometimes argued upon as being a motivator, it firstly – and rightly so – is a border; a line a person is cautioned not to cross out of fear of the consequences. Where this caution comes from is still speculated on; but be it instinct of common sense, it has a use. A good one at that too.

Take for example the fear of cancer. In my own opinion quite the valid fear, despite the amount of people with (fatal) forms of cancer are still not as high as some would have you believe. Nevertheless, being the rather unwanted thing it is, there is validity within fearing to acquire it. Nobody really wants cancer, let alone die of the many horrid ways it provides you to do so with. From here the play continues; fear makes its entry and the masses gasp at its sight.

The fear which is so easily spread by media and stories alike is the one usually concerned with way of obtaining cancer. Smoking, chemicals, wrong foods, etc. The measures people take to avoid getting cancer – though slightly reminiscent of irony and karma here – cannot quite be defined as unhealthy. Some might take measures a slight bit too far, or just way too far for that matter, but in general people tend to have a good reason to want to avoid smoking or generally hazardous or unsafe workplaces.

This, to me, sounds like a valid way of living. One knows the dangers of a certain thing or activity, and continues on to adjust the current way of living to avoid those things. Whether the motivation is to live longer, or live longer because of someone else, is irrelevant. One seeks to optimise their lifespan and the quality of said duration.

Counter to the argument I just provided with you is the ever-present – drum roll – fear of turning into a giant robot on a humanity-wide scale. To turn into a hive-mind, such as seen with ants and bees, is one of the largest fears both displayed and redisplayed by most humans. A previous post of mine deals with the issue of originality and uniqueness in humans, which borders on this point.

One will not lose his or her perceived uniqueness just by getting a flue shot, or stop smoking, or even the easy thing of avoiding hazardous materials. Often I hear people reason alike “… but the mass media is controlling our minds. It decides what we think, eat, feel and fear…” Well, yes, and no. You are either weak enough to realise you’re being manipulated, or strong enough to ignore it. Whatever of those you seek to adhere; manipulation is not always bad. It has been done for ages and will be done so for quite the time to come. I don’t mind; as long as the results come close to forcing our cattle-minded stupidity into realising some things we enjoy might have to be given up in order to prosper; both as a person and as a species.