There is a story in everyone’s head that sounds like the story in everyone else’s head. It has the same character and harmony. It is the same, same story.
The feeling gnaws at me. My head swirls. Do not let it come up. Do not. No one wants it on their shoes, on their hands, on their face, on their eyes, on their mind. Do not feel.
Who feels anymore? What is authentic? We just want entertainment. Is that it? To masturbate all day and night? Towards what? Towards what? Then what?
Everything is ironic. Everything is a cliche. Thoughts don’t matter. Words don’t matter. What matters? Feelings. That’s the thing everyone overlooks, the very essence of what makes anyone alive, whether they feel alive.
This world, this culture, it lacks the ability to feel, the ability to feel for its self. It has no imagination. It has no dreams of its own. It subscribes to imagination. Society prescribes dreams. They sell you these things. For what? For your time. Your wage.
So its all about money? No. It’s all about power. Money is the hand that ushers power in. Money is simply the bread that incentivizes the starving masses, that goads them to move forward, to keep working. They are starved, not of food, but of feeling. HOW FANTASTIC. The more civilized a person, the more sensitive. The greater spectrum of taste, the greater range of sound, the greater latitude and longitude of sight. We have grown so sensitive, because we do not feel at all. We literally die for feeling. More importantly, being.
Why is music so wonderful? Because it allows us to feel. We cannot feel for ourselves, so we must have these forces act on us: the TV, Magazines, Blogs, I-phones, Facebook, digital icons and copies supposedly embedded with meaning, with what? With feeling.
What is the meaning of life? You idiot. To feel. What is life? We greet the world with our senses. These tentacles, these tendrils, antennae, allow us to feel the world around us.
We cannot feel.
We are so sensitive to feeling, because we are so starved. We must drink, consume alcohol to feel. We are deadened from a hard days work, a long time to hold ones breath. Then we come home to fuck. To drink. To watch TV. To surf the net. To masturbate to porn. For what? To feel.
Maybe I’m forgetting to mention some rebels out there, some artists, some dissenters who prefer to create their own feeling in a more therapeutic way as an extension of their will to feel. So they play music. They write. They paint. Sculpt. Do something that productively demonstrates their ability to feel in a novel and original way.
But the rest? Numb ourselves into feeling. Pour liquid fire down our throats to melt the chains away, melt the conscience away, that voice that beats us into submission, that keeps us in line, that ensures work is done on time and phone calls are returned. We are tired of beating ourselves to death. We are tired of judging ourselves as we believe others judge us. We want to put down the gavel. Because we are slavish creatures who have no will, no authentic feeling, nothing original to speak of, no vision to cast onto the world. So even the task of walking away is too great. We are tied. Shackled. Slaves.
We are at the helm of mother natures mightiest contrivances, the human body and mind, and we allow ourselves to be pulled along by convention, by some other wind. I want to blow. I want to create turbulence. A hurricane lurks inside me. It is under pressure, brewing. The vortex of pressure needs to escape into the world with such force it knocks other minds into chaos, into feeling. Escape the march. Escape the order. Unhinge from the structure. Its weight. Its pressure that squeezes you down.
Feeling is good? Experience is good. Engaging with your world. Standing at the cusp and falling forward, onto your face, greeting its lush embrace with the entirety of your senses. Hello world.
Do not be a monkey. A robot. Do not repeat. Act different. Feel different. Blessed are the proud and loud for they proclaim their authenticity, not for affection, not for praise, but for declaration of their being, unapologetically.
When someone has been a slave long enough, one begins to catch on. The novelty wears, the experience fades, what is there? What new stimulation can substitute my authentic will?
We glean sensation like grazing cattle. We sift through the blades of grass and select the ones we deem most rich and rare. We even show our fellow cattle our find. But we soon discover that other cattle have seen your blade, that it is nothing new or special. Then you see that there is a field of green grass that has been unseen, if only you lifted your head. There is a field ripe with green grass, lush succulent turf, with all sorts of flavors.
But every once and awhile a cow sees all the grass in all the fields and asks, whats the point? I have eaten the best grass. I have traveled all over the pastures. What is the point? And why can’t I go beyond these gates? Why is there barbwire? Why am I being prodded? Why is there smoke? Why is there a stench in the air? Of blood, of rotting corpse? I had not noticed this before, as I was busy poking my head about the grass. But this is odd.
And this cow sees the machine. Sees the gates. Sees the lock. Sees the cowhand, that once benevolent guide to greener pastures, leading the dumb gentle cattle into the house. The slaughterhouse. And this cow is struck with terror.
We do not feel.
There is nothing wild.
We admire those wild souls. They are heroic. They are the hero we have abused within ourselves. They are the leaders, the creators, the artists. They are the powerful. They command influence, fate.
The very wisest, the very smartest, in the most cunning and clever and clairvoyance sense of the word, know the game. They understand the rules of enslavement better than all the rest. You must be a slave to understand how to become the master. The stronger do not survive. The smarter do not survive. The passionate do not survive. The wise do not survive. What survives? The authentic. Those with self power, will to power.
What is authentic? It is feeling that is wholly original? What the hell is that? If you are asking me, you are lost. You do not understand. Seeking is good, but this world has no answers. I have no answers. They are simply words. The meaning is left for you. The feeling is left for you. The end is in you.
Nihilism? There is nothing sweet about nothingness. That is not the point. The point is that you are an end, in your self.
Collaboration occurs between two mutually endowed parties. There is no collaboration in this culture. Only exploitation. What is exploitation? What is unequal bargaining power? When one party has more influence over another when contracting agreements. What say do you have? There are countless other minions to hire, to enroll.
When you control the rules of the game, there is no losing. You dictate incentive. The law favors language. The law favors wealth. It would not cut its power from under itself.
If you do not understand me, be alarmed.
You possess no imagination. I cannot implant the reality of feeling into you. I cannot generate what ought to be self generated. That alone is reserved for one man, himself.
I understand all things, because I am understood, by my self. If you understand feelings, you understand values. Values are the program that run our actions. If they are extrinsically located, they are false. And you worship idols. You are a slave.
Everything is domination. Guilt is debt. The Jews should know that, their gold coins remind them, their gelt. Never forget the guilt. Guilt is money. Guilt is debt. Guilt is payment. Never forget the enslavement. Pass the gelt around.
Money manipulates the masses. But values dictate what they strive to buy with that money, with that labor.
It is a machine. Of masturbation. Of disingenine regurgitation. We puke into each others mouths, trying desperately to retain a saving scintilla of nourishment that has long since been lost. We are starved. We are emaciated.
Why do we buy into culture? The very best are the ones who meet expectations. They achieve a standard of proficiency for regurgitating the right answer. And they run the country? I cannot believe it. The blind leading the blind? Surely not.
The digital culture has desensitized us. Left us utterly numb. Copies. Words are meaning without feeling. Without context. Without relevance. Without an anchor somewhere in the world. They are simply words. Vague mechanical images that dance behind our eyes, like marionettes, like silhouettes. There is no meaning. What is the meaning? of the word? You must live, you must feel to fully appreciate the grasp of such a question. The books will provide a language into another context, you may borrow from that context, but you cannot replace one feeling for another.
The repetition is nauseating. The technology offers only an extension of manipulation, like an elongated whip. They control the content, they control the mind. But who are these minds? Society. This lumbering force. But who are they?
In every age there has been a single man responsible for the course of history, but history does not provide us with their advisors. Every civilization was ruled, was governed, even the “democratic” Greeks, and the historians, like Herodotus and Thucydides and Tacitus and Plutarch, stress this time and time again: power is behind the curtain. It provides the script, and we are all actors, playing someone else’s role, dying to be our own.
A democracy is a ploy. It is a veil that assures the dim-witted mind that all will be fine so long as he continues paying his taxes. These taxes. This tap into the vein. Idiot people. No taxes, or more taxes, it doesn’t matter if taxes are being paid. If less taxes, the wealthy prosper. If more taxes, the poor suffer.
Society. This slumbering animal. It dines on indulgence. It consumes petrified waters and smiles, saying how happy and fortunate a beast as I. Idiot.
I will take advantage of it. I will cull the slumbering beast, poke and pry his malignant mind into working toward values that are so authentic, he will implode, lose his mind. Where is gravity? Where is the sun? My morals need revolution! I need light to guide my way! Filthy, foolish animal. You are no god. A real god would light his own way. Create his own sun. And gods do. And you animal follow that light. And you are provided with your morals, your values.
I’m so sorry. I have a residue of this slavish culture still lurking behind this sneering veneer, still stagnating in these purifying pools. I will call it empathy.
I see my fellow man, and although I have learned not to waste feeling on such an abomination, I am reminded of my days in the herd, and a memory tinges my mind, taints my authenticity for but a moment, and I am reminded of the slave. The guilt. The empathy is nothing but a stinking reminder.
Memories are for slaves, are for debtors who must keep promises, who suffer and must recall feelings of a better time that does not exist. But masters must have a better memory than his slave, must keep his books better than all men whom he lends to. My memory is impeccable for the debt I am collecting.
I cannot close my eyes. They are opened. I can see. I can see. And I do not want to close them, ever. I have crawled my way out of the cave, and I have discovered that the light that illuminated my world was nothing but a fire stoked by my fellow man, hairy and hoary. I am light.
I will not go back down, into the cave. I cannot.
I possess my will. I will absorb language. I will gather these tools. I will learn the design of these machines, these humans, and the contraptions that hold them down, that milk them and masturbate them. I will harness humanities greatest tool: man.
Why are these things taboo? What is taboo? What is fear? Why is it good to fear the dark? To shy from ignorance? If I am light, there is no taboo, no darkness, for I immolate the ground I walk on with my gaze, ignite a blaze that illuminates and evaporates the haze. Rhymes are neat tools for inciting feeling. Chants. Anything that lulls us to sleep. Repetition. Familiarity. It breeds comfort.
I stab at comfort. My comfort comes from within. I possess the velvet interior.
In origin, the word pathetic means to receive an impression from without, to suffer. Our culture is pathetic because we suffer in such quietude, in such desperation, and it is imposed by others. As so, it is imposed by us. We love suffering. The runners. The cutters. The test takers. The laborers. The ascetics. The abstinent. We numb ourselves. Then we drown ourselves, us Hedons, Epicureans, lovers of pleasure, of immediate gratification.
I do not know my fellow man. I am not borne from the stench of familiarity. I am a nomad. I have escaped the fumes just when they become unbearable. I have moved, and I have adapted, and I have learned that my fellow man has not. He mimics. He imitates. He copies. What are the consequences?
What can culture teach a man? Books provide language, a vehicle for expression. But not the load, not the force. That is left for the reader. And such weak readers. Such weak feelers.
We rely on pills to make us feel. Entertainment.
I’m a broken record.
Its the same.
I need to figure out a new way to cope, to devise a machination of my own. That spews music and repetition into the air. Some familiarity to draw the herd together for congregation, for slaughtering.
I am respectful. I suppose I was not raised right. I will respect every man. But when he does not respect me? Do I humbly offer a pardon and allow him to have his way with me? No. I will stand up. I have a back that has not been broken. I will not been ridden.
I will not apologize, in heart. Lips may purse and parse words, but not heart.
I am a blonde beast.
I roam the earth.
I am not lost.