M22 The world now for the rich
Eat and shit on my commode I sit,
The bird was cooked just right.
I digest fast, a turd with a mast,
Soon a plop will signal its plight.
Here I say, at this pinnacle I may,
Civilization has created these pods.
The comfort of my ass, the fan sucks my gas,
The loo a temple of gods.
Holy I feel, next a liver on the meal,
Served by a servant slave from Bengal.
I bought the wretch for a paltry sum,
He's here to lick the hole after the turd will fall.
I might become a cannibal,
The prices of the poor are very low.
You can even watch them die as you eat,
When you condescend to kill them very slow.
The world now for the rich, the poor is a bitch,
Gets slapped around and beaten with a cane.
I am god, I feel like it, I'll celebrate,
Shit on the poor from my plane.
M21 A mere silhouette
I stand as a mere silhouette of my potential for what I could be, trapped by circumstances, errors in judgement, lifeless, aimless thoughts and trivia of a mediocre life. The whispers of dreams remain unspoken, vibrant colors that are without their erstwhile lustrous personality—this is my self-made purgatory, of necessity, of course—but what else do you do when you are alone? And this is my outlet—a canvas, a stage—where I can scream!
I feel singular in my struggles, starts, and restarts; every turn seems to lead to another dead end, another wall of indifference, and yet another villain. One scoundrel after another, there's an endless supply of the wrong end of the stick. Most are in for short cuts and quick money—just greedy bags of bloated skin that have innumerable gaping mouths scrounging for the next victim. In seeking solace, belligerence; in seeking expression, suppression is all I've found; these are the standard wares of the day. But hope refuses to perish, like a stubborn ember that's been pissed on but still wouldn't turn cold.
I'll keep screaming, keep searching, and keep dreaming until I can't.
M12 The cancer of favoritism
A lot of employers say they look for merit, which usually is a duplicitous cover for being on the lookout for a blend of bland yes-men or a slut, sexually, and functionally to the garden variety of monkey that can type an algorithm on the keyboard who comes in with a purchased certificate. Or, in the case of the proud aspiring companies, candidates qualified enough to regurgitate the boot camp, the leet code crammed vomit they're holding on to. The exquisite history and tapestry of how we as humans aren't capable of, or even required to, be a dictionary of code, how not having respect for our historical limitations, and how the blindspot for how gradually one thing led to the other is detrimental to a loving relationship of discovery
An experienced person, especially one with an acerbic wit, that takes a while to comprehend and burns holes when and where it does by being astute and verifiably true is not a candidate you want to hire. They'd tell you a different story and send you off. There are a lot of reasons why I think we ought to rethink the hiring process. If you can tie your shoelaces and make eye contact, if you have the appearance of someone who needs the job, and if you have some elementary school in the background, you should be good enough to be trained for it.
Our tragedy seems to be caught in a perpetual paranoid sense of overachievements that aren't really ours; we are usually in the long line of discoverers, inventors, or thinkers, just putting the punctuation in. What are we so proud of? We've been on the other side of the chair, haven't we? The cancer of favoritism and nepotism is easy to crush, but in a corrupt country like ours, we spin words but keep doing it ourselves.
The extended drama of company entrance examinations and interviews is sort of every company's own brand of hubris, as if they really matter. In reality, if they were honest, they'd have an open web, an open book, and an AI-assisted entrance to emulate a real-world environment. But they won't; where's the bragging bit then? As if the speed marathon of the degree or certificate courses aren't enough, these companies have created another breed of extra-vain and hollow superficial creepy programmers who are as thinly spread as they are deep, and by no fault of theirs. It takes the joy and creative mirth out of computer science and tries to make it into another sweatshop product. The reason I say all this is that for any real creative or intelligent work, you cannot force anyone to do it; you have to provide a collegial environment where the brain can think freely and ask questions, daydream, and wander to arrive at a solution.
And recently, there has been a new kingdom in this species, where some companies double as fraudulent freeloaders and scrounge favors by promising employment. Usually these are bait and switch, with the goal post (a government person or straw-man offer) forever receding. Not dangling a fresh carrot but a rancid, stale, worm-infested turd. And don't think that rich countries have a dearth of unethical people. My recent experience was in Kuwait. The more I see, the less respect I have for Homo sapiens. Stay away from, and say no to, this sort of bullshit. Yes I'm an infidel, khalas.
M10 Blobs splattered
Just the damp, dark blobs splattered,
The sinuous moods of the manic man
Commonplace, commonsense notes notwithstanding,
Plan B is yet another futile plan.
Decked in green like nothing I've seen,
The parade of the greedy jealous feet.
Forfeited the dulcet for the cacophony,
City over the bucolic street.
The mildew mold of mediocrity molds,
The skin is scratchy paper.
On which the items get smudged,
The palimpsest of failures shifted order.
When rainbows are wrong, strength is not strong,
The stress is on asymmetrical stressful things.
It's just the shriveled horizon,
Bendy fancy scruples that no longer sting.
Of what hope sustains the hollowed orbits,
The lantern cackle sputtering kerosene oil.
The hope-like shadows loom larger,
Lampoon menacingly on the wall.
It's hard to recover from the consumption,
Of lost faith in the illusion of life.
The depression melts what gossamer makeup,
Goes by that name for the everyday strife.
There's grief, and it's not brief.
And the time seems to step into a black hole.
It's just me, and the miseries I can see,
That torments my sleep-lost soul.
Fictions galore, there's a purpose and more,
But the stretch can be overused war.
An ape we are, for good or for worse,
Only a tiny step out in this evolution so far.
A world is wise when it can learn,
But ours is kept slippery to stay in the past.
If we don't realize there's no god, no ghost, no one but us,
We'll be crumbling, stumbling, disappearing fast.
Page by page, the stories of age,
The narrative is incarcerated in gloom.
The spools of tidy threads that stitch are dead.
Just a long hall of past echoes—more darkness and doom.
M08 Poo fairy is a grown man
Unholy as hell, shit-fuck I can't tell,
If the poo fairy is a grown man and
I wake up early and see this guy.
Reading his news sitting and shitting, I understand.
What kind of manners, my good baboo? I ask.
To come and do this and also piss
Is this how fairies ought to behave?
I do feel ashamed to even report this.
And since I'm born of hindoo egg and sperm,
Must this then be a hindoo fairy poo?
If so, is this aberration only in this religious group?
Or is it documented more widely too?
Double shame. I feel I lost the pious game.
On the high side of things, we are
Moon rockets, sun travel, and inveterate corruption
A poo fairy shits on the hindoo mascara.
Every morning, hence, I've been sitting on this fence.
I wonder if hindoo halitosis is going to cause pain.
The peril is in the chilling morning pill, when
I feel a cold finger in my asshole again.
P2702 I go to moon
I go to moon, soon, next convenient noon,
My balls excited with juice.
I have ejaculated like I am sixteen,
I will open a lunar pubic hair saloon.
That hair will be recycled into noodles for lunch,
Or for pressed pasta if you insist on flat ones.
The dingle berries will not be wasted from the gooch,
But used to make incense to go with suicidal zen koans.
My business may spread it's in my head,
I may pimp out my customers during a cut.
During the hair cut you may fuck their ass,
I get to keep the money, the cut is on the hut.
Many a plan I must run,
The rocket needs a name.
Moon here I cum, is the best I've got,
But it's just too obvious and a little lame.
P2701 Prophet triple X
Societal rot, like shit stain on a cot,
God is clearly a cute kid crude and sick.
In his self indulgent juvenile fantasy,
He authorized me as his masterbatory prick.
Arrested in development I am too,
An equal opportunity asshole.
I am not averse to the gruesome,
Unflinchingly lecherous my dark soul.
My shit bullshit, a smashing hit,
Plan to triple puke my punch,
The three main religion into a ball of vomit,
I hurl after every bengali lunch.
With shit up to my tits, it will surely fit,
The type of future I hope to fuck.
How holy vomit mixed snot, pin worm knot,
Dislocates the unsuspecting who are stuck.
Holy pickled corpus cavernosum in pissed off rum,
An engorged phallus in your asshole will fit.
Soothing aloevera very nice thrice,
Reduce the chance of sentimental shit.
I ram hatred, pseudoscience, bigotry and flimflam,
Into the fabric of every thought.
Before you know, you are a whore,
Obey the almighty fuckpot or not?
Now is the time to turn the other cheek,
No ass cheek, you titless forbidden fruit!
Now I spray more you ill begotten whore,
To make you repent your ugly root.
Yes like they say, sort of cleansing spray,
God covets rich humans in one big holy clan.
All included and charged on their face,
In one convenient quick installment plan.
But butt fuck you may, charge extra,
You can even fuck a whore horse.
Just pay your bills through December,
Credit cards accepted of course.
It's a glorious day I conceived this limerick,
Sitting slant on my bed scratching my balls.
Shall not the zeitgeist whisper naughty things,
Into my ears or order free booty calls?
I'm famished, my rice is cooking,
All work for almighty to come near.
I eat thrice and then three times I vacate,
Rice into a pious pudding and holy beer.
The less enlightened frowns must know,
It's god who bless us when nature calls.
The relics of past, risible they say and mock,
Clearly they need to see my hairy balls.
My shit faced dick, my dick faced shit,
Core to the body, wrapped in sin.
Identifiable marks, three spitting voice holes,
Yapping constantly with a loony grin.
A masala abrahamic soul could be so much more foul,
Bring so much doom, death and despair.
If done well it could wipe the shit out of all the other bullshit,
In a tremulous whisper of dismay says the soothsayer.
I'll drink the planet's blood to the dregs,
I piss on your face and poop in your hand.
Say trillion trite bullshit but do scary shit,
Lick my dingle-berries, to celebrate , I demand.
Holy those souls, looking for fucks and trolls,
Join me, my emotions boiling to hot.
Chaos and loot, vomit and poot,
Always gift the devotee, diarrhea in a pot.
Thus today, religion triple X is born, in Kolkata the town where rickshaws, fraudsters and ministers toot their horn on the same cartoon.
Fuck you all, on this auspicious day.
Says I, prophet triple X the new top goon.
P2709 It's a holy day
I'm fit to fart, now again I start,
God willing a tempest storm.
This september I'll roil the rough winds,
The smell of rotten egg signal my form.
It's a holy day, when you can fart and be gay,
And nothing leaks out that you know.
I feel pleased my fart released,
Now I clean my asshole also.
My farts restored, the gods scored,
Imodium stopped the diarrhea robust.
Bells in hell ringing I can tell,
Celebration through farts a must.
My room smells like shit I admit,
My flat like a rectum in remorse.
Hopelessly I tried to fart,
What came out was poop of course.
My pants in poop, my bed sheets too,
They are all diligently caked in brown.
The floor is brown, the wall a spray,
Hell I swear my mirror has a brown frown.
My shit smells bad, the neighbors are mad,
I'm a devout religious man.
See the language people use these days,
Also now overflowing my commode pan.
I'm a brown man, I'm also full of brown shit,
Can't tell where shit ends and I begin.
That’s why I fart a lot, just so that I know,
The bubbles tell me what I'm seeing.
P2708 Farewell storms
There would be a day in the future of this planet when the homo sapiens would see a few farewell storms that would last first a few days, then a few weeks, then a few months, then a few years, and then, although the sapiens wouldn't be around to see these wonderful creations of theirs, centuries and mellenium. By the time these storms would stop, the earth wouldn't remember the scars of the erstwhile pestilence known as man, or their creative hubris, their many gods, and every little bit of what stood on its side of detriment and fall. There would be nothing left in the recording of layers of rocks that would have anything remarkable to say about the vainglorious species that let its fiction eat its own head.
The people and house are roused,
Two clay dams in distress break free.
People like husk and chaff are blown,
Scattered in swirls then whirled into the sea.
Death is here, and it's near, everywhere,
It just shook the mountains too.
The summers will never be green,
The cold like spears, cruel and blue.
Men with gaps between their gods,
The vast and endless unknown.
Feverish and uncertain about the now,
Strange markings on a stone.
Daniel, derna is dead, doomed,
But you haven't taught us anything.
We humans have amnesia,
That help us forget everything.
War mongers we are, by far,
Hallelujah can't neglect those dogs.
We fight with brothers our right,
Guns and blades but no cogs.
And while we are still registering surprise in one location and perhaps patting our own fancy backs that it's not in our backyard, at least where I am now, the nation, now undecided about what to call itself, Bharat or India, has several times the problem that we can see in Libya, if only for its size. The thing is, right now, the press that has the advertisements is in the pockets of the people who don't want to show leaking dams and screaming people getting washed away to sea.
And as it happens, if you don't see it, it's like it never happened. And the population who do sit in front of a television bought with a hard-earned installment doesn't want to fritter away the large screen 4K luxury on low-resolution images of poverty of people who resemble and remind them of them if the drain pipe in their road were to break tomorrow. It's only rancid and rotten people who have nothing better to do than poke their nose into the curated fairy tale that people are trying to build around their otherwise dilapidated ramshackle lives and who don't and can't own expensive 4K televisions that focus on such things. If they did, they'd join the Lotus group, get a large television, and start collecting 4K disaster movies.
P2707 Anyway, screw them.
Generally, although I've tried, the trite message that only through cooperation or teamwork can anything succeed has fallen on deaf ears. People just like to exploit people, even though in the end it leads to their end. Those that pass on my reports as their credit amass the clients they need, but it doesn't hurt their scruples, and they haven't paid a single cent towards my hours and have the audacity to drivel on about their selfish side of things, gaps in communication, or other sewage to cover up the lack in their professional standing.
This is why it's important to have my own consulting, no matter how small, so that there's at least a legal fee structure, and because people get indoctrinated into the same school of meaningless fuzzy formal logic, they are less likely to trifle with a company's time than that of a mere mortal consultant, or that's how their brainwashed brains dressed in toga's used to think of it, and some still do.
While heavy cement heads with blunt nuances can come handy in various business offices masquerading as humans in a suit and tie, the underlying issues with need are still constrained by a soft, squishy brain owner, less formally dressed, who, for whatever reason, understands a little bit of what goes behind the obscure layers of abstraction that technology hides.
If they don't sit on chairs at the helm, while the bricks do, every civilization, no matter how advanced their prayer or appeasement technologies, will come to a grinding halt. The physics of the world tend to be agnostic to faith, and thus it's only the nations that invest their citizen manpower or buy them from outside in structuring a well-defined physical universe that will prosper. These places with baroque decorations of Half assed half answers will fester with more prayers and other ostentatiously public and communal forms of displays to their invisible being, but unfortunately only be growing more and more deaf and dumb to the real world of visible sensibilities which really matter and sustain cooperation.
Why I get to meet the world's diarrhea, I don't know. I am an obsolete person with excessively silly morals and values that don't quite fit this newfangled, customizable every person's own and always changing ephemeral standard of deception that's the fashion. Fuck or be fucked is the best replacement for Matthew 7:12, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, as prevalent in the world today: faithful friends, who just wanna fuck you, out of love, freeloaders, and plain fraudsters. The brinkmanship and duplicitous manner of these people in trying to be ostentatiously godly in vocabulary while being devilish in deeds makes me even more nauseous. Anyway, screw them, I've lost my patience.
My mind is sort of locked in squandering away the rest of whatever it's got in buying some hope and proximity from humans, but all I get is a waste basket full of backstabber turds and thorns. No matter if my life isn't long, it's almost nearly over, as I can tell by the bouts of depression and accompanying headaches that are prognostic. All I'll leave behind are some blogs that no one will ever find and recycled molecules that, by the laws of entropy, will never write like this again, thankfully, for the world. It will then be just a world full of spineless ass-licking religious dimwitted freaks praying in a cave, because by then they would have fought over each other's hairy gods and brought civilization back to the caveman days.
P2706 When I die
When I die, I die a boorish bengali,
Who lived his early years in awe.
And in the later belligerent years,
I might see the poles in miserable thaw.
A heated earth, a famished hearth,
I tried to ride this apocalypse to death.
But I feel the wind slipping from my lungs,
As I slowly lose my earthly breath.
A mere speck of a misanthropic man,
Troubled in his mind and by the moon.
The doom and gloom, or the boom,
Of the bomb yet to go off, too often, too soon.
I wish to be rediscovered, alive a ghost,
I fancy a scary face of a grim race.
In the haunting that will surely follow,
Obliterate the Sapiens sans a trace.
If not in life, maybe then in death my virtue,
In a come-back sketch or more.
The rare rituals of squiggles of the mind,
Of mine will remain as strange as before.
This river of life, now cuts me like a knife,
The leftovers of the flesh drift in pain.
In a distant time, in one favorable clime,
I'll be back with my promise again.
Omnibus-omnia-eta.vercel.app
P2705 My Moon
We now hit, soon pan spit in craters, the hindoos will first shit, Our rights are safe on the heavenly moon. No moslame or other shit, I remind it, Our base camp will have a mustachioed goon.
Or no jesus fucking christ heist shit, I swear touching early morning nature calls. Only cowdung and cow urine based war, My pant's zipper open and I say look at my balls.
Holy cheeky chants, full feverish flag furling cunts, Hairy hindoo cocks blocks the docks of the rocket base. The moon is ours, puja prayers and bulbous flowers, Adani Ambani and I soon by a pious noon, will own moon and space.
Three hundred thirty million goodly gods, Names of all the manly moon lanes. After the hindu deities I foretell, To the wretched parliament of opposing nonsense.
Half moon my eye, my shit I let dry, Thinking of my billionaire kith and kin. We will set earth on fire, let the fuck rot, While we on the moon drink sherry and gin.
Fiendish and foul all like coal except my soul, Nasty and ghastly mostly hairy men. Fuck off, be gone, it's all mine now, I have sent political bottles of semen.
A fence in space of hate and fate, Chandrayan will show a finger to anyone now. New attempts to land will fucking fail, The atmosphere filled with holy hindoo farts, And moony monkeys with fire in their tail.
Happy the scientists now, need to kill them somehow, Or they'll make honeymoon on moon cheap. Poison south indian tart with my poison fart, Make godi media give them solid grief.
They go south, open the scientists' mouth, And pour the shit from a temple. Like magic, science die with the sick, And their families are sad as hell.
Wanna give the gandhis gonorrhea dysentery and diarrhea, How I hope to see that family die shitting. That day I become the king immortal, My head like a giant moon permanent fitting.
We won this moon race, shit on many a face, And by the holy piles of shiva we shall shit more. Sun next my slogan text, To orgasm the election whore to a roar.
P2695
The water now full of bones,
A skull talks wise and cackles loud.
Creepers crawl, a fight with brawl,
There's more rain and hate in the cloud.
People are all numbered now,
One, two, three, one lakh say, or more.
Who knows, who cares, fuck them,
For the poor there's never any score.
Only if you're rich or famous,
Then only you coax a tear.
How great was that man,
He drowned in a drain I fear.
Holy the cow, tits up now,
Floating as if a rice husk on tea.
But, no no no, don't simla go,
The hill station is under the sea.
Not climate change, holy heads nod,
But angry gods pissing in the sky.
Relax, we have been too lax,
To kill other believers we now try.
Hence you fill a form under water,
So we know where you're from.
If you are you know who,
We save you for a holy pogrom.
Full of it and more, fat ministers snore,
In dry dream served French fry.
The capital drown, Yamuna's frown,
Hopeless when the helpless cry.
Can't hide, put camera aside,
Like in other places they did.
This is the center, upended renters,
Can of sticky worms inside the lid.
Shelters like shit, too many to fit,
We didn't foresee Yamuna like this.
Diarrheal disease, and vector-borne,
People huddle and wallow in piss.
Holy our holes, the government trolls,
But they too in the wrath caught.
The flood rushes on, everything's gone,
The responsible run from the rot.
On land and on sea, as you see,
Bribed god and men treacherous.
Phallus in mouth the laity rush south,
Into the waiting three headed cerebrus.
In one fell swoop, the sordid loop,
The triangle is pristine and green.
The birds are back, nature back on track,
People forget and the repeats begin.
P2694 People live so many lives
People live so many lives,
That are all so not me.
I could be somebody else,
Now who could I be?
It really doesn't matter, I infer,
In the end, it's a start and a stop.
The interim is a story of fiery storms,
You're a hero or a flop.
People here want to be the top one percent,
Then I'd be a fool to even try.
I'd just sit back in the ninety nine,
Face crooked with a smile very sly.
I'm done with this mad doing,
It's not something I subscribe.
I'm a leader and I can't follow,
Especially when nitwits lead the tribe.
I'd rather be a zero,
And die a loser like I care.
Let them fight it out, the dimwits,
I'll get out of their hair.
I'll make pots and pan, I can,
Pottery is a splendid art.
I'll play with clay, yay,
I'll ensure a fresh new start.
As far away as I can, I'll travel from,
The grinning saccharine plastic masks.
The ugly rituals of masquerade,
With enough hot tea in my flasks.
Then a bucolic brook, where no city crook,
I'd live on my serene own.
Far from the sad shopaholics,
Watch the verdant yield I've sown.
I'll work and write and draw,
I'll let my mind roam free.
I'll die in peace and let the insects feast,
Whatever is left of me.
P2692 puff a poot
I don't know what it takes, do you?
Just like that I'm a king with a hat,
Nothing else rings true.
The land is vast and unknown.
But I tend to my shindig and spend big.
Commonsense of the commoner has been blown.
My pit is deep, I don't sleep,
My mind is calculating a zero sum.
You sow the seed, but it's I who gets to reap.
No matter I think, in a few years blink,
This land will be robbed and full of gloom.
I'd have already left this empty stink.
If you lick my hole, be my troll,
I may puff a poot, a bye to you.
Otherwise plan on dying as a heathen soul.
P2691 Mustachioed Hooliganity
The newly erected kingdom of India, as it were, is not one of castles, knights, and dragons. Not of facilities, education, healthcare, or employment. No, this kingdom is one of spirit, a shared identity among the shaggy masses who laud the mustachioed hooligans of yesteryear, long before the introduction of the rule of law. Watersports for people of lower castes seem to have about the right amount of silliness for such a realm. This week was filled with celebratory hullabaloo.
This Mustachioed Hooliganity is not quite anarchy, if their press is to be believed, but a throwback to an earlier time, when gods roamed the streets. Anarchy is for young, naive souls who believe in freedom, usually the opposition, minorities, atheists, lower vulgarities, and other obscenities that have not yet discovered how much hard work it takes for the appointed goons to keep them in their place. No, the Hooliganity is, in essence, a kingdom built upon the shoulders of the many mustachioed precedents of the past. Whereas these nitwits that complain descend from disgruntled natives who had done the hard work of civil disobedience and other forbidden acts so that the current generation shouldn't have to, but still do.
The rule of law has always been a tricky thing, especially when you consider that laws are essentially just words scrawled on a piece of parchment by someone long dead who probably had a lot more hair, teeth, optimism, and significantly fewer piles than the present generation and knew less. The hooligans circumvent the obscure parts by not consulting and are hailed as heroes in this kingdom, celebrated for their rambunctious spirit, captured in many a media tale, and their prodigious facial hair, revered in daily mustache-growing debates.
In the Mustachioed Hooliganity, there is an order in the disorder. Here, chaos is a friend, the ever-intrusive guest who shows up at the most inconvenient of times and won't leave until it has turned your world upside down, especially when your money stops working overnight. There's always a post-hoc postmortem offered, usually outrageous, even comical, but straight from Moses. These hooligans live by the commandment: If it's good for the leaders and doesn't kill me right away, it's probably okay'. This is the rule of the mustachioed thumb, permanently stuck up the rears of the citizens who like it. The kingdom of the holy goon-mongers wouldn't have it any other way.
P2690
Although I've sketched a future in some of my posts that seems to indicate things may be bleak, but the truth is, I don't know. The future is always a prediction based on models; that's what artificial intelligence essentially does under the hood, a statistical prediction in an ensemble chaos universe of random starts. A weatherman would understand. I am not a soothsayer but I'm emotional; I just react to personal events and circumstances in the country and around the world. When I feel less overwhelmed, and I feel more optimistic about life, I try to write about some of the positive experiences or what has worked in my life that might help others.
One thing is clear to me: India has some brilliant minds that are dying for want of nourishment. And although this post may not reach everyone I could inspire, I'm hoping that someone will deliver the news. The point is that it doesn't matter what caste you are, what your vernacular is, how old you may be, what religion you practice, or how much money you or your family have; if you understand how quadratic equations work, no one can take that away from you. I feel so sad when I see brilliant kids polishing shoes on the footpath in Kolkata. Or a girl that can shame an MIT mathematics undergrad working in a brothel. Our education system is meaningless if we can't bring education to everyone or provide opportunities.
The point is, there's no such thing as a dull boy. If you're not interested in a topic, your brain won't be focused on it. We are forced into a vocation not because that's what we want to do but because that's what we ought to do, and even that through a corrupt process. Be curious. Don't ever be intimidated by a syllabus or the ignorance of those around you.
You don't need to go to a good school to learn. Learning is inside the head. No matter where the student physically takes his body, the brain still sits immersed in darkness, and it is the brain that gets enlightened. You have to be your own tutor, and you have to understand.
The only reason you may not enjoy a painting is when your eyesight is blurry. You can't focus when you're not able to have a crisp focus, whether it's a page, the screen, or a face. Try it. Once that comes into sharp focus, your brain will start paying attention.
Every lesson is a pyramid. If you leave holes in a layer and try to skip to the layer that's on top of it, you now have two imperfect and fragile layers in the foundation. When you read a book, if you come across a word you don't understand, look it up and figure out what it means. There's no point in just flipping pages.
The world outside is as good as what you can build in your brain. Try to take an audio book, close your eyes, and try to visualize whatever is in the narrative. This is essential in establishing the visualizer as well as the articulator in the brain to cooperate in comprehending life.
P2689 I brood constantly
I brood constantly. It's who I am. I have ruined a career out of it, and I still have doubts that the diarrhea in the supply chain isn't entirely my fault. I mean, I'm just an ordinary multicellular being going about my life, but no one lets me. There's a tremendous amount of time and money spent on the diorama we call our reality, when in fact most of it is just rental props—stuff that you can own and must pass on after a lifetime. It's amazing how attached we all get to the stage and the knickknacks on it, and how little we value, and strangely, I feel, the real things that matter, like time spent in this life, and not fritter it away in counting the stuff scattered on stage or waste it jostling and fighting for them.
I guess having a defective brain makes me prone to failing to appreciate the beauty in violence, blood, and gore. The money that can be made, they tell me, is a lot. Yes, certainly we must keep up with the tribal rituals and proud traditions, and who am I to say anything? A mere nobody to boot, and then less, and even less, and so on, until the end of the sentence, where no additional information waits for you. Especially when there's no dearth of gurus with bloated bellies and puffed-up chests attesting to one course or another on how to do this or that. And they add that they accept all major credit cards. Bingo, there you go; your life is set. Just one course, and you're on your way.
However, mine are just inconvenient bits of unhelpful language that don't warm the cockles of your heart. In this parasocial mix-up of people that mix in their imaginary living room, lodged in everyone's mind, I assume they serve food and beverages. At least we can distract ourselves with the sound of chewing the food we're putting in our mouth, thus avoiding the necessity of putting anything in or, goodness forbid, a conversation.
My friends have told me that what you write makes no sense and, in any case, that no one reads it anyway. I agree, and I have nothing to say to defend myself. What I write may indeed not make any sense, as often this is just stuff that flows straight out of my thumb. Thumbs, more accurately, as that's what I use to type on my smartphone, and I just have an itch, and once I'm finished, I feel I can relax a little bit.
P2688 Mask
I'm promoting another long comment no one will read to a post. Hopefully maximizing its chance. The topic was fake happiness. Heck, that's the reason I started the Omnibus Omnia on LinkedIn: to discuss topics like this. But no one is interested. Just some bots spewing trite clichés and vomit. People just want to click on the trifles and stay happy with the fiction that's being spun, and LinkedIn is happy as long as it has traffic. And that's why most people have this pit inside that's slowly rotting. People have turned everything into passive entertainment—television—and turned their thinking off. Thinking seems to be work, and the prevalent idea is that if you're not getting paid for it, you don't better do it. I disagree. Sure, you'll make money, but you won't be able to answer or think through life like that and we'll increasingly look like that mask I've sketched, a dystopian dystrophic version of ourselves.
Is not our reality a meticulously curated gallery of societal constructs, artificially erected edifices that shape and restrict the contours of our existence? Our thoughts, our dreams, and our fears—are they not constrained by these invisible fetters, these insidious norms that dictate the rhythm of our lives? Are we not ensnared in this complex web of perceptions, the veracity of which we seldom question, and in our quest to be happy, are we not offering fealty to these phantom realities? The answers are yes, and we are screwed.
This happiness is the crowned monarch of virtues, the heralded goal of life's hallowed path. Yet, what if the reality we're seeking to be happy with is but an illusion, a grand narrative spun from the loom of collective fictions? What if that is making us unhappy? The issue is that the fictions that we have created to get the world to work have trapped us because we've started believing in them. Most people don't know what reality is today, and to wake them up, it would take peeling an onion several layers deep, and no one's interested.
This trend of trying to force the appearance that everything is okay all of the time is more than an imposition; it's an incarceration. This modern-day prison is the reason why people lead a contrived, artificial existence. And in leading this life, some of them come unmoored from their real selves and self-worth, which feeds the feeling of being alienated in an increasingly individualistic society. As a species, we are not specially rigged for happiness; that circuit is driven by other survival imperatives.
We are that animal that defecates, fornicates, and fights and also fibs, and we should attempt to strip away the layers of fib, to shatter the mirrors of illusion, and to lay bare the naked essence of our species. Only then can we navigate the labyrinth of life without losing ourselves in its beguiling twists and turns. For it is one thing to be wearing a mask to the world and quite another to be wearing a mask inside, which is the reason for our angst.
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