Then and Now, Now and Then

The virtue of this city happens to be found in its vice. Rain. Brussels rain, accompanied by an inescapable cold for the soul. A bearable monotony. Bearable by virtue of pacifying you into accepting it.

The Sun is nowhere to be seen, and it feels like the length of the buildings in front of the window elongate the breeze of monotony. The water slowly dripping from a metal bar right in front of the window resembles a cat sitting still, gazing at its prey, then suddenly jumping out at it. These drops are the only things that startle the passive eye which allows this gloomy, silent picture to engulf it in its demonic stillness.

A constant, bearable wait. Waiting for a call to action. Looking for a heroic way to break out of the monotony, to break the ice that separates the frozen from the moving. The distance between static and dynamic is probably the longest. A decisive move that would set everything in motion… A cold engine that would suddenly start, leaving the driver who forgot how to drive utterly consternated.

 A question arises: what then? If we wait and let the wait weigh us down into a complete, ungodly immobility, how will we be prepared to face the call to action? We remember vaguely, in an intangible past, a voice telling us move, budge, push your gears. But when we came to the realization that the voice was outdated, that there is new machinery, that we are the new machinery, we ceased to listen to the voice urging us towards efficiency. We realized we are a better, upgraded version of our parents and we decided to take that knowledge to the grave. And with a pride. But missing the motivation to spin our gears out of lack of external movement, we decide that our inactivity is excusable, and we retire in a world of temporary comfort and self-delusion.

But the rain knows. The raindrop that suddenly drops, startling our peripheral vision, is the call to action. The same rain that once pacified us will soon shift poles and jump at the prey that stopped noticing it.

In the collective conscience, only one question arises: what then? The ones who ignore this question and treat it as an annoying pop-up will realize the graveness only when it will be too late.

The end is not near. The end is now. The one who truly realizes this, his conscience doesn’t ask “what then?”; it asks “what now?” 

Fragment

I can feel my cells tingling in a frenzy of confusion and longing for your presence, because your absence got them scattered across galaxies looking for you. I feel distant from myself without you. I’m not here.

But when I’m confined in your eyes, I feel freer than in any conceivable utopia. I allow your gaze to consume my flame because I know that I have to keep your soul warm. This is just a preparation – an exercise. We are evaporating symbols of the fog that haunts us in our deepest sleep. It’s confined in dreams we don’t remember, because we’re too busy deafening ourselves with music that seduces and sedates us into non-being. We are the result of a long, hard battle fought against ourselves, and for millennia, we’ve been barely winning.

Here, stay here, or I will reel you in with question marks. I eat up my syllables hoping to grow wiser. You’re the only one I’ve Found.

I’m the lava that decided to breathe, knowing it will freeze by doing so. Its only relief is that it passes on its heat into something that solidifies as an eternal statue, transcending its yell of defiance and reaching the bliss it could never have in its state of unstirred passion before its release.

Where Dreams Grow

Warm tears to water the soil under my eyelids… where dreams grow…

The only thing standing between us is the rainbow built by the sun’s rays. A bridge between our souls, a playground for us to slide on… mixing colours together to leave behind a more diverse universe… Each smile is a half-moon and decades fly past us in seconds… It’s actually us flying past them…

Faster, away from time and space, we fly.

Matter is nothing but a cluster of complex layers of shadows – a cloth blurring our sight… A cloth that clings like ivy and wraps itself tight over our eyes like skin…

But once we shed it by shedding our light on it, we discover ourselves to be the only reality there ever was.

Always us…

Once the tidal waves fill the symbols on the shore with water, bleeding their brilliance over the moon’s reflection, spilling the world’s secrets to its guardian angel, we will conquer our mind’s confusion and find comfort in each other’s eyes alone…

Need will be erased from our vocabulary and all pain will become bliss in our Heart.

I found you, as simple as that.

Forever, I found you.

Each time, over and over.

No decay, just becoming.

Rebirth until death extinguishes itself.

Tonight, I cried with the moon’s reflection in my eyes… And the moon cried back and bled its silence to mourn my death’s death.

And the world was transfigured before my eyes. I saw what the oceans were hiding and cried another ocean… The universe has its ways of concealing its inmost built-in secrets.

All songs end in silence… The most beautiful silence. The same silence that has our gazes entangled.

Where will I find you after the Flood?

I wish I could keep these tears embedded with your reflection forever…

I’ve waited all my life at the gates of Mystery alone…

Now, I finally have someone to wait with…

Their opening is certain… It is the symbol of certainty itself. But it is up to us not to enter alone.

Will you hold my hand when our gaze slips within itself?

Will you meet me when we take our first breath into eternity?

This story has no ending. It doesn’t matter if I keep writing or not, it will write and fulfill itself…

Life has no conclusion to offer us, but our hearts do.

Always Somewhere... Somewhere, Always

Colouring each breath, slipping on sighs, the world is a big fountain and we flow on it.

Where are you when I close my eyes? In my dreams? Physical?

I find you somewhere else each time.

Your beauty is not out there.

It’s inside.

I found it in me.

I wiped a tear on your hair and made it glow. Now my vision is blurred but I can still see the shape of eternity because it has no outlines.

Reality has no rules, love… you’re a spoon, I’m a cup and I’m filled with my love for you, and you stir it slowly, massaging all of my deepest fears to ecstasy. Finding you was the worst nightmare for my ego. It dies painful deaths each moment it’s lit by the sparks in your eyes as my soul falls down their abyss. Your rabbit hole is my favourite roller coaster. Up, down, left, right, center, the plot is like the flight of a bird with a missing wing. What a monstrosity we committed by flying. We’re not meant to fly, said the voice in the shadow. But when I turned on the light, I saw a mirror… but I could not see myself in it, because it could not contain me anymore. The mirror didn’t realise I turned on the light. But you did. And your eyes are the only place I can see my Self. When you close your eyes, I disappear. So stay awake! Don’t worry, this is a dream, and we’re both in it. And we’re leaving together.

Will you hold my hand when our breaths’ colours start fading away? Will you slide with me on a last sigh and fall with me when we get to the cascade?

I find you somewhere else each time.

I find you somewhere else each time.

I find Time somewhere else with you.

One Foot in the Rabbit Hole

"Mmm... Don't fall for me!"

But it was already Fall.
I was counting the leaves to check the time.
It was half past Eternity.
And we were in the Garden of Eden.
God forgot to kick us out.
We just hid in a bush.
Lucky for us He likes surprises...
I catch a shimmer in your eye and put it in my pocket. I heard it's good luck, plus it keeps me warm when you're not around.
"We're nuts, aren't we?"
Your eyes look careful, but behind them lies not a care in the world.
"Well yeah... I mean, we're not exactly supposed to be here."
A soft breeze finds its way onto our cheeks while we kiss, in an attempt to paint our souls to immortalise the moment.
Wind is Time's paintbrush, and we're its canvas.
The dance of the paintbrush tickles us both into an almost torturous laugh.
All it's doing is adding layers of colour to our souls, gently smoothing out the rough edges from some long forgotten past.
"You cold?"
I take out a few more shimmers from your eyes and sprinkle them around us. They just lay there, floating around our bodies, warming us up.
Slowly lifting us...
To a new sky.

Decisions

Love is this path that demands to be walked. It’s a story that demands to be written. Every time you try to leave it, it follows you home and knocks on your door til you open. It smiles and comes in without letting you say a word, sits on your couch and starts telling you its problems, as if you didn’t have anything important to solve, like what to do with your life and how to do something without getting nudged every day by an incessant tick constantly reminding you of some promise you apparently made before you were born. Which stream of thoughts do I follow to get to the bottom of this? I tried thousands, and all lead to the same answer: I don’t know. Do I keep digging to find out if there’s any meaning to it or do I finally throw my shovel and yell “Abort mission!”? Who in their right mind would do either of those things? And who in their right mind would just sit and do nothing?! That’s what I mean by Stuck. I just want to swing, God damn it! What don’t you get?

"Reason becomes unreason when separated from the heart." - C. G. Jung

Elevator

"Just let yourself fall already."
I was still afraid to open my eyes
The elevator door opened at 9:12am.  I have no idea how long I've been in here, since my phone died and I have no other way to check the time.
The only company I have is the sound of my growling stomach.
And a song stuck in my head.
I have a shovel at least, to dig my subconscious.
And a big mirror.
Too bad the light's out.
Sitting in a lotus position, it's so soothing to just...
Allow my own emptiness to consume me...
My desire is a never ending spiral, vibrating from all the pain.
Crying out for help.
"Yes, how can I help you? Yeah I'd like to find the purpose of life. Would you like fries with that?"
Fuck it, while I'm at it, I might as well fall victim of my own illusions just to pass time.
And scream.
At the top of my lungs.
It's ridiculous. I'm trapped in this elevator, where, as a kid, I'd play with the buttons.
Now, they're just staring at me, almost laughing.
I'm stuck somewhere between the eighth and the ninth.
Eight is just God who decided to stand up.
Too bad he can't reach 9 so I can get off.
I guess that's my purpose.
To figure out how to get to 9.
Laughing hysterically, banging on the walls.
The echo fades away like a riff.
Each time.
I filled my life with echos, only because they sounded good, but in the end, they all faded away.
I look in the mirror. There's someone staring at me. It's hypnotic.
I forgot who I am.
It's absurd.
I think for the past three or four hours I've been yelling "what?!" every two minutes.
Each time I throw the question, I reel back more emptiness.
I wish I had a bed.
I couldn't sleep either way. It's been years since I've slept.
What if I painted something on the mirror?
I'm somewhere in my subconscious.
If I'd start paining, I'd do it in a trance state, then wake up to a finished painting of... myself.
Whose eyes are those?
Why bother spying on me? Can't you see I'm schizophrenic?
Hey. Look at me when I'm talking to you!
Looks like I scared him off.
Even the Devil is afraid of boredom.
There's a memo glued to the ceiling.
"All you need is love."
Suddenly, the elevator falls to zero.
Fuck. I was so close.
Well, it's always fun starting over.

Thoughts

Thoughts are immortal.

What are we building then?

Bridges, buildings, better technology?

Funny you thought that was the goal.

That’s included, obviously. Better thoughts means better exterior reality. Exterior reality is a reflection of the thoughts manifested in a certain space. But space is subject to time. Time is subject to cycles. Cycles are subject to birth and death. Thoughts aren't.

So my question is, can something eternal be the product of a mortal being?

Samsara

The heart holds strong bonds with the truth. The more it is allowed to roam free, the more connections it will make.
But those connections will be severed by the mind’s search for unwitting pleasure. In a miserable attempt to mimic the heart’s ingenuity, it fails to realise that it’s causing nothing but damage. That it’s so easy to just go back to being obedient to the heart. Because the heart is a good master. It does not fool the mind. It is only the mind that is capable of fooling. The heart knows no such thing. The heart is innocent. The heart is pure. The heart rejoices in the singing of the birds, while the mind doesn’t even hear them. The heart trembles before a grieving soul, while the mind does its best to avoid being affected. We must sit straight, have clean clothes, write legibly, stick to concrete facts, as if the truth was something outside of you, alien to you. As if you’re in a dark room, trying to write an essay to God, to convince him that you’re worthy of Heaven. All this while saying to yourself, God doesn’t exist. What a silly torture! The mind trembles before truth. The mind trembles before the real "concrete facts". The mind falls down, starts stuttering and looks for an exit. The heart smiles warmly to gesture its appreciation and its love for truth. So vivid, so simple, yet so cleverly hidden in plain sight. Walking down the street, one might stumble across such a moment of clarity and of pure joy and inner bliss. But then he is reminded by the big adverts that he’s a consumer and it all becomes dust and fairytales. Blah, why do I drift off to such stupid ideas?

Timeless

If I could write the truth, I would.

But I can’t.

Words are simply mirrors. Nothing but mirrors.

We are not our words. Our words reflect who we are.

The truth laughs at the mind. Not a mocking laughter. A grandfather laughing at his teenage grandson's naïve rebellion.

Tick tock. Come back. Tick tock. Come back. Tick tock. Come back.

Why?

And again, laughter.

Tick, tock. Come back. Tick tock. Come back. Tick tock.  Come back.

This is boring!

And again, laughter.

Tick, tock. Come back. Tick tock. Come back. Tick tock.  Come back.

I’m going to break the clock!

And again, laughter.

Tick, tock. Come back. Tick tock. Come back. Tick tock. Come –

The pieces of glass sparkling through their flight, the clock's needles invisible on nature’s transparent carpet.

And again, laughter.

Followed by silence.

Followed by confusion.

What?

And again, laughter.

What now?

And again, laughter.

This isn’t funny! This is horrible! Help me! I don’t understand!

And this time, a soft laughter.

Don’t worry. You are my blood. You cannot get lost, unless that is what you choose.

But how could I not choose that?

By letting go.

We Flow Like Water

Sitting high, haunted by my higher self's sensitive taunts.
Each moment I live, I pump blood to the wishful, loving, truthseeking people all across this beautiful landscape we cherishingly call Mother Earth.
Each moment I manifest the divine essence of God is a moment of clarity for the souls in this realm, waiting to be rescued but not giving enough of their own will to deserve it. Higher and higher, my bodiless self floats across tundras of galaxies. We engulf ourselves in a scared victim frequency and wonder why we can't breathe. Just float back to the surface, where you were in the first place, before having dived in. The knowledge is within you. The kingdom of God is within you.

Play

My mind doesn’t believe anything. It doesn’t understand its own existence either. It cannot explain anything. Thus, for the mind, all is void of meaning, for it lacks understanding of it. Is the mind, then, actually void of meaning in itself? And thus disposable?

But of course not. The mind is a wonder. What is the mind?

I wonder.

If not mystery.

Then why would God listen to it?

I’d love a show, He says.

And we play.

We act.

We paint.

We sing.

He’s sitting front row, but the light’s on us, so we can’t see Him.

This is a dream.

It feels so warm.

When are we leaving?

You can leave each moment, because each moment is breathtaking.

Manifesting beauty through a dream.

We are intonations of God.

But there are no strings.

Somehow, we have found our freedom.

This is so beautiful, I cannot comprehend it, says the mind.

Shh, says God. Just watch.

Natural Medicine

Breaking through, breaking out.

Boxes, covers, labels.

Phonetically organized chaos.

Insane society.

A pencil…

Could it overcome a drone?

Could it draw rainbows above the cursed villages?

Could it draw auras above the heads of the innocent?

But there’s no need. The rainbows and the auras are already there.

It’s just that this collective consciousness chose not to perceive them.

And yet, something tells me to stick to it.

To fix it.

To heal it.

But first, it must become aware of its illness.

How can you tell a madman he’s mad?

An Orchid's Light By The Stairs

He followed her to the last floor, where she fell silent.

“I suppose I’ve changed my tune.”

She turned around.

“Fine.”

How much longer will she last?

He kept following her.

They got to the railway station.

“It’s cold.”

He promised he’d always keep a place for her.

“My heart is warm.”

He wandered on the tracks, looking for the train.

She took a step back.

“Would you like me to wait inside?” he asked, smiling.

And suddenly he disappeared.

She felt as though her will had been dislocated.

His voice was in the back of her head.

“You do it for others. Won’t you do it for me?”

“I don’t see how I can. It’s not that I don’t pity you. But one has to do it one’s own way.”

“Perhaps it is so. I’m not desperate.  But I want you.”

Where would it take her?

Distance didn’t matter. It was always a journey of ever-lasting growth for the soul.

Expansion of awareness.

She saw an orchid growing out of the concrete right beside the stairs.

“How simple it would be to just pick it up and throw it on the tracks.”

She didn’t know what to do.

Neither did he.

Nonetheless, the train would come soon.

It was getting cold.

She was combing her hair. It helped her to concentrate.

How much longer will she last?

“Fine.”

But it was too late. The train was coming. She could hear it.

“Come on!”

But he stayed hidden.

Only with a snap of the fingers, he could make the train stop dead in its tracks.

But he waited.

What if he allowed it to come?

Would she throw the orchid on the tracks?

Only actions will tell.

“What are you doing?”

He punched the wall and broke his fist. No pain, no gain.

With his bleeding hand he kneeled down and looked at the flower. A tear fell on its soft petal.

Suddenly, a blinding light burst out of the orchid. He didn’t understand it. She was sitting on a bench, watching this strange occurrence unfold.

“You’re mad.”

He smiled.

“Yes. But look at this.”

Suddenly she saw it. Something so strange and pure that it made her cry.

So he snapped his fingers.

The flapping of a bird’s wings could be heard from where she was sitting.

She looked around but couldn’t sight the bird.

“Still wondering where it is?”

Staring at the ground, seeing her own shadow dance like a river, she finally understood.

None of it made sense. Yet, at least.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Suddenly, they were swimming in light.

What happened to the train?

“What train?”

Bringer of Light

When I started writing this, I put on Beethoven’s 9^th symphony so I could feel the light trickle down from my fingers into words that would echo throughout eternity.

How useful are labels? They’re good so you don’t mix things up. But if everything is one, how could you mix things up? There’s only one thing. So how can you tell me “no” when I tell you I am happy. How can you label and limit my existence with one word? You cannot. No one but me has the power to do that to myself. And I will never do that again. I am free forever. Evil has lost me. I have triumphed against the Devil. He has lost already. He cannot even see me anymore. It’s like I don’t exist for him. He’s being sceptical about my existence. Oh, I exist alright, but not to you. You’re too blind to see me now. My soul is pouring so much light out of it that if you would open the door to where I’m hiding, it would overflow and you would drown in it. So come, look for me, find me. You will die doing so. But you’re free to do whatever you want. I’ll just sit here and wait.

I’m waiting as Jesus told us to be as servants waiting for the return of their master. I am a humble servant of the Light. I travel through infinity and measure it just so I can tell Him, look Dad, I made a sand castle! Isn’t it beautiful? And He will respond, in all honesty, “Yes son, it is the most beautiful sand castle ever built.” Because that’s what I want to build for Him. I want to show him that my love is capable of not only moving mountains, but of moving souls from Hell to Heaven. I will be a Bringer of Light in this world where everyone aims their guns at the moon. Because of my existence stabilising the balance of Life, their bullets will ricochet and hit their egos right in the heart. And it will vanish forever, and we will all live free, happily ever after. Everything is beautiful, because that’s what my ego admitted on its deathbed. Everything is beautiful, because when I open my eyes in the morning, I get pulled into a collective consciousness creating itself. And if it knew that it was creating itself, it would make everything beautiful. But the universe is an illusion. It is a beautiful illusion. We can turn it into the reflection of true beauty. We will experience true beauty anyway. All of us. No exception. Because through all of our ups and downs, we built this world. And if we choose to tear it down, we can go out with a blast, like Kurt Cobain, and it will be the most beautiful blasts of all. It will be like fireworks. And then God will catch the light from the fireworks and caress them as he puts them back in his pocket. 

Letter

I wanna run away from inspiration sometimes, cause it hurts too much. It's too hot to touch. It glows so bright in the middle of the night that if I write too much I might confuse it with sunlight. I'm at the sunrise of my art, my heart is still intact. Imagine when it will be plastered, it's the thing I lack. I need to be broken by someone to pick up the pieces and rebuild myself the way I envision myself. I want to come up with my own name.
Is a true genius untamed? Cause you have to break the chain of society to be able to become civilized. You have to break out of the illusion of safety induced in your soul through fear. You have to wander in your mind and find your utopia to be able to build it. I say don't worry about time, you'll continue working on it after you die. I say don't worry about circumstances, make the best with what you have. For instance, take a hammer and build your home, to be able to sit relaxed and have nothing to worry about. Don't bother with what others have to say. Tell them to get out of your way and to have a nice day. Don't kill their free will, they're free to do that themselves. They're free to be slaves. You must fly away from the night's decay. Don't let stray dog barks break your bark and get to your roots, your purpose is deeper than that. Your existence is no coincidence. It's a bad excuse to say you're useless. Look for your purpose, use a magnifying glass, look through the keyhole. Look for the key! Don't waste time. Don't be lazy. Amaze me.

Yours truly,
Destiny.


P.S.: I'm you.

A Promise

You said you would write something. You made that promise. Are your promises all hollow words, carved out of dreams? There is a difference between ideals and reaching them.

You have to run fast to reach them. Because first of all, karma is chasing you from behind, and second of all, your dreams are running away from you. If you look back to when you were little, you can remember how your dreams were right there, with you. Your mind was so creative and beautiful that you were in perfect balance with your dreams. You lived, you loved and you laughed.

Then you were taught to fear. Fear school teachers that punish you if you get bad grades, that yell at you if you misbehave, that shun your imagination and tell you you need to learn by heart instead of learning with your heart. Fear strangers who might kidnap you if you’re walking alone down the street. Fear the homeless because they’re dirty, crazy drug addicts. Fear change, because we need to adapt to a situation and put our grip on it as if there is no other. Fear love, because love makes fools of men. Fear yourself, because you represent a potential danger to society. Fear your wildest dreams, for they are nothing but nonsensical, childish reveries.

You were taught to love fear and to fear love.

So how can I trust you when you say ‘you promise’ when you function through fear and distrust? How can we live with Machiavellian ethics and expect to flourish as Aristotle? How can we find God if we fear change and we fear the unknown? How can you besiege the fortress of your fears when you are on your knees for its King? How can you assuage your own pain if you are indifferent to the pain of others? Do you look in the mirror and see yourself? Or do you see the shadow of a child whose mind brought wonders to the world?

If only I knew how to write when I was 3 years old. I would’ve written the greatest book of all. If my love for the world wouldn’t have faded away along with my will to do anything to reach my freedom and my happiness, which now I only pretend to still have, I would’ve been able to guide the world with my Light. Instead, when I look in the mirror, into my eyes, I’m blinded by the glimmering light of the child that withered, drowned by hopelessness.

Now I’m left only with one hope. The hope that one day, that child will be reborn like a mighty Phoenix, flying over the world’s sorrows into the night’s visions of Utopia. A vision where he is running free, without the worries of a mean karma chasing him or of a dream running away from him.

Horses

The horses running away from themselves leave a trail of light behind. Their Sun is a ball of rope. Its end is tied to their foot. They are all one. The ink that writes about them is their only existence in our realm. We don't have eyes to see them. We have robots to produce our rope. We have robots to run our race. But we don't have any robot to show us the light. We only have a reflection of it that blinds us. Our confusion is a vicious cycle directly linked to our collective amnesia and growing insanity.

Sleep

I was just sitting, gazing at the never-ending input received by my neurons, which painted vivid images of beautiful illusions. On my comfortable bench, breathing the fresh spring air with the emerging scents of different new-born flowers, lay a body maneuvered by invisible strings that only exist outside of space and time. My body. The delicate fingers of a soul pulled my hand to my mouth and allowed me to take a puff of my rolled cigarette. The strings were connected to each pore of my skin. Each breath I took was a gift of God. Each time I took a breath, another would exhale his last, passing on part of their energy to the big soul that was pulling the strings of all the souls pulling human strings. In return, he would allow my soul to transmit another breath to me. The cycle of the universe was based on destruction and creation. But outside space and time, there was only multiplication. At our space-time stage, you only learn the basics – addition and subtraction. Up there, you’re taught the multiplication table of existence. Infinity is ever-expanding. Only God can count by how much. In our world, you have a set amount of energy. Ask Lavoisier. And because of this limitation, we have to make choices.

The universe is shedding martyr blood. The Tree of Life seeps it.

Today, we made pipelines to make this transfer more efficient. Our collective consciousness has amnesia. All the ancient cultures’ general knowledge is known today only by an incredibly small percentage of the world’s population. The big giant called the West is dressed nice, has a perfect body, but is mentally and spiritually challenged. He’s stronger than everyone else in the playground and rips apart everyone else’s drawings, kicks all the balls over the fence and steals everyone’s lunch money.

The geeks are too anti-social to gather and fight back against him.

I sneeze and wake from my daydream. Am I becoming allergic to this illusion?

The Light

We adapted to the Sun. Our eyes only see what the Sun shines upon. If there is no sunlight, there is no physical vision.

In darkness, our third eye opens. With the third eye, we see reality. It gives us the knowledge and the light of the Good.

The dilemma is how to keep your sanity. There is no vision lens for the third eye.

Fortunately, the light of the Good never burns, because the Pineal Gland is filled with water.

However, the water can calcify, which is why it is necessary to avoid fluoride.

Plato knew all this. Why is it that after thousands of years of humanity having this knowledge, we choose to ignore it now?

We live in the Era of Darkness, where we are bombarded with information, but we lack knowledge.

Even our Clouds are illusions. Chemtrails that kill us. We believe in a fake Paradise. We live in a scientific dictatorship, where everyone is blind, dancing the nihilist dance.

We drink poison and quickly feast upon invisible food.

We allow ourselves to be pleasured by the suffering of others. We are the Modern Man, who is better than everyone else. The Modern Man is a White Man lying to the rest of the world. If you are a White Man, you have Privileges. If not, then you are graded using racial and sexual profiling. If you are African or Asian, you are destined to a miserable life. No need for further details, you know them very well. The White Man lives with double-think, unaware of his Privileges, but in the same time keeping them in his pocket, like a Debit Card. Their safety is banked.

Ignorance is blister.

Infected. Snake bite.

We are back in the Cave.

Our fate has been written before the beginning of time.

Here, have this addiction. Follow this routine for all your life. Allow me to inject you with the cure of Cognitive Dissonance. It will allow you the illusion of happiness. Your mind will always be stuck in the mind state that I want the collective to have. Collective mind control. Military dictatorship. Waking up is equal to a fish going on land. Awakened people are no longer adapted to the environment I’ve created. I succeeded in playing God by modifying the natural route of evolution. I have no face, but I have the world to myself. I can squash the whole population like a cockroach under my foot, but I’m disgusted to do it barefoot, so I’ll put my Army shoes on. Then I can toss the Army shoes in the bin. Maybe that’s exactly what I’ll do. The world is my basketball. I can make the majority believe a whole continent is smaller than it really is. Africa is not important. No one needs to know its real size. 2 + 2 = 5. I am Big Brother.

I am O’Brien. I am the resistance. I am Winston. I am the only one who is. I am the powerful, akrasian leader. My will is not mine, actually. I’m the Devil’s puppet, but I don’t mind. He’s leading me to more and more power, and it feels so good. I have no patience to comprehend my condition. I am the elite. I am the perfect human, and nothing more. I do not wish to be anything else. I wish to be immortal and all-powerful. I own 7 billion people in the physical and in the mental form. Why would I give that up? How could I give it up when I’m the highest you can get? This power is by far the best drug in the world. My world. That’s how I know. I know everything. I know everything because everything is created by me. Double-think is the perfect mind-state. I’ll make sure you wave and smile at me even when you leave. You’ll thank me for destroying all trace of humanity, because my mind state replaced yours before you were even born. You don’t even exist. You have no rights, no freedom. Your only freedom is the freedom to die. Get off my planet, you disgusting cockroach. There is no light here. I turned it off.