The way its always been.

It’s always quite hard to decide what to write about. When I decided that I wanted to be a writer at the age of ten I never thought it would ever be this hard. Write from the heart they say. What do you mean? Like love? Being young and naive I thought, what could be easier. A genuine appreciation, concern, care for others? I’ve got this. I learned the hard way during the years that were to follow that people aren’t into that kind of shit anyway. Love is repugnant to most people. But that is a bed-time story, for another day. I began practicing. I studied all the rules about the freedom of expression. Not understanding then the irony. I was determined to be a by-the-book desperado. After all you can’t make it otherwise. I wrote stories and poems. Hundreds of them. Mostly during maths class. I had a few published in the school’s newspaper, where I had my first work-experience job as a chronicle publisher. You see, a chronicle in the world of the “smoking mirrors” isn’t “a factual written account of important or historical events in the order of their occurrence”. It is a, often tragic, to optimise impact, written piece based on every-day occurrences and/or predicaments but totally fictional. For example, you take the quandary of drug addicts, you think up a character, you call him Bob, give him a house which you image and describe as low standard as possibly, come-on he is a junkie. Now you tell people how Bob got into this mess to begin with, how his life degraded fast, got thrown away as he went from a loving, loved, straight-A student to a good for nothing scum-bag. Then depending on the writer’s state of mind Bob will either get cleaned-up, making this a story of hope, or like I did so many times, you kill Bob in the end with an overdose, leaving him alone, lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood and body excretions. Maybe the dog will eat half of his face. I mean who doesn’t just love a gruesome story, if nothing else, to make us feel slightly better about our own debilities and to feed the primordial instincts. This was big in the 80’s and 90’s, I mean the drug addiction subject, the way writers published so many books about it, and how the media milked the issue to sell prints for so many years. Until the general public got tired of it, mainly because the ways to keep feeding the mainstream thought-cycle, the idea that this was, not only a problem but a prominent matter we should all concern ourselves with, become scarce. Thankfully, we now have the internet and hold a devise of some kind in front of us that constantly repeats itself to make sure we don’t forget all the “important” stuff that allows for extortion. Thankfully there’s no need to rely on the 8’oclock news and in-between-programme advertises solely, anymore, to deliver the information about the kind of opinions we must have. But I digress… This isn’t about taking a cheap-shot at the media. The media is a business, a big corporation business, and as such it’s role is to feed from and into people’s basic instincts. People are still at a very low stage of evolution. We want to pride ourselves otherwise, but not only have we not evolved that much yet, perhaps the process was interrupted and reversed at some point in history by those who personally gain from it, but we have stopped evolving altogether. Therefore, I won’t make it as a writer, because quite frankly I don’t give a fuck. I know most people think they don’t either, but they are wrong, as per usual. People don’t lie to each other by mistake, or even by pure dysfunction of brain activity, people lie naturally because that’s all they have ever known. We have been lied to since the minute we are born. It starts when we “pop” out, people look at us and tell mommy and daddy:

” What a beautiful baby”. -Stop that shit, new-born babies are ugly: covered in slime, blood and vagina goo. All wrinkled and shit. Only a mother and a father can think their new-born beautiful. People constantly deceive themselves, always trying to be someone they are not, telling themselves they are a certain way, not only by believing their thinking errors but upholding them in the utmost regard. Living up to the expectations of others, be those expectations high or low, good or bad. I won’t write about unrealistic love stories just because you need someone to come and give you hope when you are too damn lazy to go and find it yourself. I won’t tell you that your dysfunctions are normal, they are generally experienced by an overwhelming majority, but if I and so many others can get ourselves back on track, I am not as arrogant as to think that you can’t do it. We all have the same innate authority. I won’t personally pick you up and place you gently on the path, because if you can’t stand a little wind don’t expect to become the storm. I won’t hold your hand while you proudly deepen into self-pity and make excuses for your blind spots. I won’t tell you what you want to hear but I might if you are worth it, tell you what you need to hear. But reasoning is a motherfucker and no one likes the truth. We think we do. But we don’t. The truth is, your loved ones might die tomorrow. Your children, your parents, your spouse, your pets. Can you handle that? I can’t. I mean, I have recently spent a shit-load of money in Vet treatments to prevent my cat from dying. It is the new-age trend to be detached. Detached from what? That’s just fancy wording to say, “I will not acknowledge my feelings and emotions, nor take responsibility for my actions.” People will go a step further to say they don’t have any feelings. When will they realise the travesty of this sentence? Even psychopaths feel. Save a very tiny, rare exception of psychopaths that don’t feel any emotions at all. And even then, they may be able to turn it on and off. Isn’t that hilarious? That everyone wants to have a sickness these days. All in the name of hiding from themselves. Why? Because it hurts? So let it very well hurt, let it hurt until it bleeds you into oblivion. It will only hurt once. The truth is, you are wrong. Mostly always wrong. Our thoughts constantly deceive us, and we are too damn afraid to question them. Nobody likes to admit that they’re wrong. So we look for truths somewhere else, in paradigm that we firmly have, false, convictions on. In stories that numb our own inadequacies. To help us prove our lies to ourselves. We have been told that we must blend in, that being different is wrong, we have been compared to someone else all our lives, to our siblings, the neighbour prodigy, exemplary offspring, to the strange kid sitting next to us in class. Remember them, always sitting up straight, closer to the teacher, paying attention, knowing what the hell was going on. While you got distracted by a fly taking a dump on your pencil. Next thing you know you are in a meeting with your parents, because there are concerns about your disruptive behaviour. We have Learned Helplessness. Break free for your sake. I won’t send you tales that will lull you into comfort. Because the truth is, you will never accomplish anything in life unless you make an extreme effort towards it, and even then, it’s not guaranteed. Deal with it. The truth is you are your own enemy. You are the terrorist that bombs yourself to smithereens, the one you fear so much. You are the bad economy that seems to bother you even though you have food, clothes, shelter, clean water to drink. Not to mention all the other meaningless junk that you horde, the shining objects that gloss over the emptiness of your Soul, giving you the illusion of fulfilment but never purging the void. You are the cancer that consumes its own existence. You are the liar that keeps deceiving. The wanderer that keeps on leaving. When you ask for honesty, as with everything else, be prepared, because you just might get it.