the paper, the pen, my eyes

Twelve days, imagine that! Twelve is the amount of days I spent incarcerated in my own god-damned hell. Twelve fucking days! Isn’t it ironic? We, the weathermen. We the people of climate. We rise and fall with spring, summer, winter and fall. We chase the sun like dogs without leashes but still try to nag off our leg wired to the chain. The anchor that keeps us exactly where we belong, nowhere else…

Like ants we wander back and forth, collecting all necessities before the arrival of winter. The only thing is it doesn’t do you any good. The cycle of life repeats itself, and you with it. Hey you, you corporate leftover, imprisoned in your cubicle. It hurts, doesn’t it, working for the man, awaiting some numeric figures imprinted in a piece of paper nicely put in a white envelope, wrapped around some golden string. Come on! Scream your lungs out! We all know you want it! The feeling inside we all need to vent before hitting the boiling point. It’s like revolution without arms, a riot lacking rage. It’s like a gun without coil.

Haven’t you figured it out yet? We are only binary code, pure statistics. Zeros, there are no heroes. Leave all that to Hollywood. You are the error in the account book, the coma between two figures, easily erased. Remember, you are not better than me, I’m better than you. Or so I have been told. All that doesn’t really matter, all the collective junk that raises us to believe that we are something, that we are better than one and another, that’s our fix, our drug. What do we do next, when the trip wears off? We get more. Like addicted whores we roam the wastelands of commerce in search of something newer, something bigger and something to tell ourselves that we are better than the person next to us. In secluded ways we cut ourselves off from the outside world, hide in our perfect IKEA-hives, our nests. Our territories, entangled in barbed wire, mines fused together to blow up every intruder trespassing. Our enemies, on TV we watch them dwell. Like an epileptic kid in front of a video game we get our eyes penetrated with reports about war, murder and rape. Where is the fucking sensation in that? Where is the honour, where is the pride in scaring us to sleep with fabricated headlines?

From my watchtower I observe your little lives. You are inspired by me as I am inspired by you. The only difference is I need you. Like an emotional vampire I stalk you, lurking in the shadows. Knowing that your expendable lives will make me live to see another day. You are my strength but as it all comes down, my greatest weakness. For this I will always despise you.

So where do you go when you hit the dead end? It’s not like a crossroad with multiple options. It’s not like a meat counter, where you get to choose from all kinds of delicious dishes. Remember, in the end we are pretty much the same. I’m not better than you. You and I, together we stare the dead end right into its malicious eyes, knowing that there’s only one way to go from here, turning around and going back. Going back equals going down. Going down means we’re doomed. But hey, welcome to yesterday’s news. Headfirst we plunge in to the black hole, the tempting void. Our deliberation.