Storytelling : Neuropolis

I once read a sentence on the pages of a book, which impressed me so strongly and created such a vivid, lively image in my head, that i decided to write it on a piece of paper and keep it, with the purpose of framing it and hangin in it on an unspecified wall of an uncertain place in my unfocused future.

Now i am 45, i am a smoker, i am recently divorced and write essays like this for a living, which means that i have a stroing chance of not having anything like a future, or at least not one that involves walls that have the puprose of showing enlightening turns of phrase to my friends and neighbours.

Those word, though, are still in my head.

"Their weaving is stronger than the fabric of reality. It's tight and rhythmic, it's made of sounds, lights and fury. Of laughter and tears, bonded together in such perfectly symmetrical way that makes both resonate stronger. It's a fabric that wrtaps the reality of the daily mundane things and it's hole, its broken edges, its flawed texture, and almost lulls it to sleep . waiting for the day in which it will incorporate us all"

Those words might sound like the ones you might hear from a self absorbed philosopher or a writer that hasdnt yet learned the lesson thatr all writing is nothing but a breeze in ahurricane, and still believed so strongly in the topic of his description that rhethoric took him over.

And what could be so important and unique that would drive who i discovered later, was an adult man, an atheist, a scientist that ceased to beluieve in science as hope long before, to write something almost embarassingly driven by emotion and hyperbole.

I can tell you, but you'll have to rpomise to try and understand what you will accept with an open mind, and give me advice by the end of this.

The man's name is Charles Kane and he isn't talking about humanity and the strength of their beliefs, politics or religion. He isnt talking about ideas.

He is describing what his research institute has grown to name "The Collective Of the Deceased Unconscious".

Or, in a moment of truth, with the name that everyone sues when theyre not addressing the presss, Neuropolis. The invisible city of the dead.

All of you know what i am talking about and possibly know where i am going with this but let's assume none of us know. Let's pretend to be blessed with the gift of ignorance and start from scratch.

Kane's longtime partner, Grant Madison, a neurologist whose name would be reviled and loved equally in the years following his discovery, ha patiently and relentlessly devoted his life to study the very own essence of human  minds. His mother, a famous novelist, whose last years of life werer reduced to a parody of living by Alzheimer's disease was, together with an almost compulsive curiosity towards what amkes people tick oin an organic level, what made Madison discover that the impulses of the brain could actually be preserved and maintained after a person's death.

With a mixture of chemicals, and the correct timing and technology, parts of a person memory, personality and fragments of their thoughts could be kept into existing. If not living.

The ethical aspects of this were grey at best but wait, it gets worse.

When Madison died of leukemia some years aftyer, his partner and husband Charles Kane decided to develop his discoveries and turn what was mostly a faithful dream into one reality.

The key, surprisingly, was interaction.

The impulses of one single being were mostly scraps by themselves, but were much much more when led to interact with the ones from other deceased people. The more varied, different in age, preservation, type of death the impulsers werre, the more they interacted and the more completely uncanny results they created.

And yes, the word created fits perfectly.

The human remains became brick. They created a world. Neuropolis

Their fragments of sensations, memories, jolts of senory conscience joined together and made what were legitimate interactions, voices, faces, sounds. Lives.

The threads of the souls of the deceased made a building that they went to rest in for eternity.

Still, up to then, all of this was mere speculation. No one knew what exactly thsoe interactions were. We coudlò only see that the cobweb was made but not what it implied and what the shape of  iuts movements formed. All we saw was a series of patterns and numbers.

There came technology to help us again.

A software, created a by a renegade governemnt hacker, whose name will be kept unmentioned, with the purpose of deciphering neural impulses during torture and interrogation sessions and make them into intelligible visuals, sounds and words, was taken (with sheer democractic force) , adapted and made into the key for the Neuropolis cypher.

Now we coudl see what happened in there.

they were dreaming eternally. It wasnt a word uttered by a drunkenb èpriesyt at a funeral or a half arsed metaphor used by a childish hack writer like myself. It wads a reality. What was there was the ones we loved and lost creating a tangible, endless loop of moments taken from their past. Memories, sensations, worlds, faces. Sometimes fgrom their own memory of the living, sometimes created by mixing with the others. A life of the unliving that had no boundaries of time. A true, real collective unconscious of the dead.

So the discovery made its biggest leap, or its greatest mistake. It became public.

The tiles of the city grew in numbers while people started to lead their loved ones' neural remains to the system.

As a man that has always believed in the basic indecency and inability of progressing of humanity, i was impressed at how many were glad to join the project, instead of rejecting it in the name of religion of lack of ethic and morals.

Sure, there werte critics and naysayers but generally all it took to move them towards Neuropolis was the special wave of crushing grief that took you over when a person you shared your soul with disappeared.

Mothers made their lost children jpoin the city where there was no aging, soldiers were led to a place where their bodies wouyld not get torn to pieces in the name of possessions.

The crushing, suffocating punishment that life set on us with illness was only an illusion in a land were all were free of a body.

Still, being humans, we had to fall at some point. Our conviction was bound to fail.

It was discovered that lots of people were commiting suicide por refusing medical treatment in case of illness, in the hopes of joining the project.

Why blame them? This was the first time someone was giving them a tangible proof of an afterlife, a form of better world where the chains of living would be lifted.

But, of course, the wrath of medicine and morality and religion came down.

People had no right to join what was perceived as a false idol, a shameful alternative to their "cures" or the very profitable attraction of religious numbness.

Crusade after crusade, they wanted Neuropolis gone. And the afterlife to return to a benevolent fairytale. Why letr reality exist when it endangers the manipualtive power of myth and illusions.

And then another dangerous discovery was made. One that woudl make the axe on Neurpolis' neck real.

Neuropolis wasnt a fully innocent dream. At least not in the sense of our deba5table human morality.

Some people died in violent circumastances. Some had unresolved demons in their heads. Some were plain sick or just evil.

They built their parts of the city too. And being a product of an unbridled subconscious, the world they created was a pure repetition and realization of violence, fear, abuse and feral cruelty.

They relived their moments of violence, the abuse they died for. tehy commited revenge on uynknownb assaailants or sometimes on the living.

There was darkness to the light of their souls. An underbelly.

Few accepted that. Very few. The majority reacted violently.

Now, Neurpolis risks to be turned off. In a few months, the decision will be made and the city of the dead will be burned to the ground in the name of morals or let prosper with its own monsters.

I have been recently diagnose with third stage sarcoma. I will not live.

After this piece is published, i will commit suicide. I have no family left. Nothing.

I will be another citizen of Neuropolis or the last one to walk through its doors.

I leave it to you. You will vote to one of the greatest decision humanity has been asked to make.

All i wanna tell you is, read my words again. Try to udnerstand. And then decide.

A Moment

I dont think people have ever fully realized the power of an Enabler.

Or, more correctly, i do not think people have ever realized fully, especially in the age of black and white emotional filter, where suddenly every single individual is entitled to act in any way they want , as long as they provide some dramatic excuse for it, the absolute , corrupting, viral power that the people called enablers have.

Let me clarify: i hate this blog. After using it as a place to express my emotions and in some case pushing them upwards to put them on display, ive grown to despise the practice.

I moved away from putting thoughts and feelings in the open for everyone to see, even from wrtiting them for myself.

Cause there is one truth that nobody wants to face, these days: the act of "opening up about your feelings" is a fruitless masturbatory game that hasd been severly overhyped after years and years of psychoanalitical mumbo jumbo. It's the end game of years of absence of real proiblems, and the mutation of a noble thign like expressing feelign to few selcted good people into parading them on a virtual screen for everyone to gape at, and possibly expresss unsincere sumpathy for.

That is also enabling. Pushing poeople into the delusion that they have "someone having their back". Someone who "cares" so that in the end they neglect the oens that really matter, in the name of tragedies on steroids. Creating a grotesque Soap Opera where everyoen makes daily monologues on their afflictions but they do not really care for each other and honestly are just waiting for their turn to speak.

In the end , the quiet ones are the onethat really feel.

But, this time i have to speak. Cause yeah, when you go to AA or therapy, people makelong talks about the neablers of substance abuse , or co-dependence or all the fuss that is ok, since magazines talk abotu it. And even more, in the age of the self serving weep blog, everyone is in love with those phantom figures that you can easily put the blame of all your dysfunctions onto. I am not a cunt, i was enabled into being cunty by my passive aggressive daddy.

But i faced it today and ive been facing it daily for months now.

My mother is ill. Seriously ill. For Months ive been trying , if not to help her on aprtactical side, to lift her moods in simple ways.

She is an alcoholic, suiffers from severe depression and is basically a recluse, almost unableto really do much more than getting through the day.

Since she cannot  be forced into rehabilitation or medical attention, because that woudlrequire the law to mark her as unable to take careof herself, which she is, my only main resource, as a son that has never been able toi do much rather than take more trouble to her heart, is to attempt, from a distance to make her slightlyless msierable, and in that feelmless uselss myself.

And i try, constantly, daily, endlessly.

And i tried again today.

I will get you new clothes, mom. I will bring you places. You will havea bit of ahppiness. I wont go away, i promise. Smile

That's all i could do.

And it kinda worked, cause it was true and sincere. I want to hrelp, but she has to want to be helped, she hasto say yes and give me her hand. Which i woudl gladly take,cause she is, after all, the only other person i love, besides the woman that i want to share my life with.

Andthen. after a few hours, everything goes in the toilet.

He isnt evil, my father. I wouldnt dare being one of thsoe spineless people that i keep meeting and seeing, who write horrible tirades on their parents, claming abuses that never happened, crying for injustices that were never there.

They owe you nothing.

So, no, he isnt evil. He was a goodman, he raised me well. he is still occasionally generous, and i know hed help me if i needed, always.

But he is old. He is ill. He is medicated. He is cruel and small and feels powerless. Cause he never amounted to much in years of life and never solved issues that he had that just stayed there and rot. And he saw that things werent working in his wedding and with his son and he got bitter, and popped pills and got worse.

So he enables her sadness cause thats what runs in his blood. He sucks away positivity, not cause he is a bad person but because all that he is is sadness.

So he tells her "No , that will never happen"

So he reminds her that she is an invalid

He reminds her that she isobese and sick.

He says that she will have not long to live.

And she falls back and drinks and allhope is gone again.

And i learn about it and all i can feel is that it was pointless.A gap grows larger and to not feel sad, i become numb, cause numbness is good.

And i know that one day that gap will be all there is. And i am lookign forward to that day, bvecause i will stop feeling like shit. Even if that means being guilty of nto caring.

Cause i wanna not have emotions, cause emotions to me are a burden and everytime i feel sympathy or compassion in the words or eyes of others i feel weak and more pointless.

So we enable each other's loss.

There was a point when this could be solved.

I feel disgusted at myself for writing this down. there is nothing noble into pouring your heart out cause some feelings arent good for anyone. Cause what you end up doing when you do this, whether you want it or not, is just taking your misery out on others. And no matter how they l,ove you, they will grow tired of it. And they will leave.

The only good there is to this is seein what happened and what is going on inside of you.

But that said. I hope ill never do this again.

Night Time Prayer

I stand in my night pyjamas on the  balcony of my house. A day of november . Earbuds should be blasting talk radio or music in my head but fir a second , i turn them off.

Tha air is cold, makes my fingers and toes tingle. I should go back to the tepid, cuddling safety of the room. Buit Not now.

Light up a cigarettte, vicious remain fo a past of toxines injected and expelled from my body. I might even looked grotesque to anyone who passes in front of my building. Pitch Black, cold, only cars drive by with that sound you just hear in late november. That icy wet rumble of the cars. Prrojecting themselves rapidly towards their destination, to meet routine, stress or maybe temporary joy.

And me, slightly chubby and a bit balding, with a severly overgorwn beard, looking at the horizon, the cigarttes diying off between my fingers.

I have been in that exact place beforer, i have stood like a sentinel, drugged out of my mind or drunk, or filled with sleeping pills, anything that would gave me a buzz powerful enough toi calm my anxiety down and fix my holes temporarily.

I stood there for years. At hours much more later than this. Sometimes even seeing the dawn rise with bleary eyes.

Always alone. I wasnt desperately alone, i caused my solitude as a precise choice. I wanted those moments of calm contemplation, of freedom of addiction, where i just waited the alcohol to lower and the nausea and vomit to float away from my body. Those were dark times.

Or i just listened toi epic or sad music, grasping those moments with that incombent fear of death looming over my shoulders. And it manifested as soime sort of vertigo, more close to an attraction for the void than anything elose. Will i fall from the balcony or just throw myself down. Not cause i desired death, but just to see if could do it or stop myself from doing it. An action in a life of passiveness.

But i always poickjed the slowe coward death to the actual suicidal one. I was gonna die one day at a time not in one theatrical act that was supposed to make no one cry.

And my brain filled with thoughts, each one darker than the one it followed. and my heart beating steadily with a sense of weight and pressure, and words that were connected together with web of toxines exhaled at times with the smoke of entire packs of cancer sticks.

But now something has changed.

I am smiling. I stood there, being myself, and yet my mind made me smile with what all my memories are made of: her voice, her face, her scent,m her warmth.

Somethign sweet, clever and funny that she said, that gave me the energy ti goi through days of empotuibness, aching back and scary insecurity. A person that gives meaning to me, cause she loves me and is always there anmd at the same time makes me more motivated than i ever was at anything towards the simple act of living with a smile of my face and the fierce feeeling of tenderness in my heart.

She makes me smile. And i love her. We are one. And i love her.

Its all in one smile and the memories it brings and those meoiries are woirth half a lifetime of trouble and pain.

And worth the eternity.

We All Fall

I dont get through a full days, in these late times of misconception and trouble where i dont encounter at least a very opinionate being that thinks they got their mind right on the subject of addiction and drugs.

I know one fact and of that i am pretty safe: addiction are a high number and all of them are a sign of a weak mind and soul. And i am not saying this from a moral high pedestal. I am an addict, i wwill always be. I have no sympathy for my oewn condition. I despise it, but its almost impossible to live through life without an addiction or some sort of hole that you make less gaping with the help of a crutch.

And if you ever have met one of those individuals with an  attitude that words like "i have no addictions, i am high on life", they usually are the oens that cause others to be addicts. People so self absorbed in their being maLignant soul tumors ., who thrive on sucking the life out of others with such millimetric precision , that their complete extermination would probablòy be ana amzing solution to a lot of problems regarding abuse.

Besides that though, let's not fool ourselves.

You migth enjoy the type of alcohol you drink and moistly take momentary pleasure out of it and be somehow in control of what it does to you. You are still a person that somehow needs booze. There are exceptiuons, sure. There's people who really do it for enjoyment. But they have had at least one moment wwhere the intoxication was the key, and life got so completely uneventful and suffocating , the people surrounding them, the ones they used to love, got so barely tolerable , that they needed "somethign to take the edge off"

And that is where the real core of substance addiction and the hook is. You do not get born an alcoholic, or an addict. Ecven the harshest cases always had a reason.

My mother is a raging alcoholic, now turned into a prescription med abuser. She used to be sober. She tried to clean up, also recently. But with the push of an enabling person that is also her main reason for a need for peace and self destruction at the same time , she slowly made her mind and her body into a dysfucntional puddle that needs anything to not completely fall together and at the same time is consciously marching against self destruction.

And without getting so personal and up and close. Think about it. Theres people everywhere who consciously ruin their body, gradually mutilate themselves, make their lives extra difficult, for the side effects of their own "safe haven". Wahtever that is.

Mine is sleeping pills, most of the time. I got my liver, stomach and brain messed up with, first to obtain sleep, then just to have the incredibly short moment of quiet that they gave me. And when that became shiorter and shorter, i increased the dosage. And now im too weak to try and kick and face the withdrawal.

Pot smoikers, you dont get off that easy. I know how your culture has spread like plague on society with your delusional thoughts on how pot is a completely harmless ., almsot religous, magic herb that allows you to live better and would turn the world into a paradise if everyone used it. It is a lie.

You used to be a functional person at some point, then you discovered that excisting and having a normal brain causaes anxiety and you went on that route, cause with ti you found a whole army of enablers who cuddled you into thinking that it was a solution and not a problem. A culture, a family and a philospophy , not just  another momentary fix. The system made people  think pot is wrong, so they lie when they say that potsmokers end up being demotivated sacks of nothign that have no drive towards anything or liveliness. And all of thsoe were lies.

And if you use medicines, and they fixed you at some point but you kept using them cause they made you feel good or sleep better or anything: you're a drug addict too. Do not use your illness as an excuse. You are exactly the same as the disheveled guy who shoots heroin on tyhe streest. Only difference is that his fix is illegal and yours is state endorsed.

Cigarettes? We all know about them. But at least smokers arent delusional about being self destructive.

My point is this: hacve an addiction, whichever it is. Everyobdy has one. But do not lie about it. Do not say yours is more acceptable. Do not think it makes you special. Or that you have a condition that grants you to be above other addicts. We all have it and we all will fail. Period-.

Summer Venom: A reflection on Human Failures

Its a summer day, and while looking outside of my woindow doing chores, i am brought to a weird and sudden memory.

Ages ago, during a aummer night strategically placed in heated, sticky, mosquito infested months like this one, i made a big mistake, that i will remember forever as one of the worst faux pas of my existence. Well one of many. 

I did the mistake of believing in the absolutely non-existent possiblity of fixing of a dying relationship and went ona trip around northern italy with a girl. We were in that unnerving phase of a dying romance where you cant really stand each other but youre still "trying to work out things".

First off: There is no working out things. Life is a powr struggle and war. When you enter a relationship, whther its romantic or evena good freindship, you enter a realm of unspokes compromise, where you sorta have to accept giving out sense and logic in the name of something higher and stronger. 

Most of the time that higher and stroner thing wasnt there to begin with. Most of the other times it was but it was very frail, and as soon as it debilitattes a little, you find yourself dealing with another human being that, as most humans, is by nature hostile and dangerous, and will jump at your throat at any excuse. IOn most cases every little thignthat ocne was a reason for your delusions to thrive, will become a weaponagainst each other. 

The delusion of love easily turn into the very palpable reality of hate. 

Also, you havce to add that often this person will know things about you: what was some beautiful and romantic sharing is now a weapon to hurt you in the softer spots. Thats what people are in the end, when stroipped off from the layers of rose tinted dreams they dress themselves with.

SO at that point, theres no working out. It wont happen. Theres silent hatred. unspoken issues. Lies, cheatying and deceit. No working out. people dont work out things. they act like thyre trying but in the end they hurt each other, whiooch is the basic communication of humans. 

So yeah, in the end we camer back and had a huge fight under my door. We threw things we bought oin the trip at each other. We shouted, hurt each other where it was more painful. I cried. I was exhausted. She tried to drive me over with her car. 

And my other thought is how i still clearly remember  how she thrived on huirting me physisically. And i cant take out of my mind one thought: she did it because as a man, i could not react to that. She could hit me, hurt me, even badly, she wasnt a feeble girl. Let's not bullshit each other with the lie that all women are less strong than men on a principle. But i couldnt do anything and i took the hits. Why? Cause if i even dared to opush her back, she would have sued me or worse. I would be labeled as a woman beater. 

I am sure of that. It's another dark shade of that. Social double standard work as a weapon too. Just ask to any divorced person. 

Dont talke any of this too seriosuly but realize i am right too.

Storytelling: Silent Lucidity

Scientists used to say, in that pointless rambling manner that men whose only goial and pupose in existence is to milk rhetoric out of nothing, that sometimes the quickest way from point A to B is not a straight line. 

But until tonight, all he always thought about scientists, philosophers and men of the wrod, was that their inane refelctions and their endless elaboration on the actual meanings of chains of events, were much like a giant, perfumed, wall of smoke surrounding this huge secret that humanity, as a flawed, terrified species, refuses to see: nothing has meaning. 

And you will get years, centuries of groups of people, some smaller some bigger, to conince every single indidivdual that they figured out the secret mathematics and rules to waht connects cause to effect and most imnportantly they have found the real source of life and the reason for living. 

You will face people that will point at you for seeing through all this, say youre bitter and angry, jusge your realism and guilt trip you into denying it. They will widen their eyes when you hide your realization of what you have figured out in the middle of a good day and ask you "swaht's wrong" or what's the inner meaning of your words. And you will feel so sick of that condescending compassion, that whole series of maks that feel so superior to the faces that wear them, that you will just pretend you were being hu8morous and joking. Partcipoate in the play even if you saw the rotting corpses in the backstage. Play like you dont know that this whole charade about fdinding the murderer has no meaning cause theres no ending anyway.

And whenever you hear someone say sorry a thousand times you cannot help of thinking about how your father did the same, apologizing with teary eyes after drunken rants, insults and  violent outbursts. And how he would repeat the same actions all over again a few seconds after the aplogy. cause apologetic words and declaration of love and feelings mean less and less weach time your repeat them. Cause the more you do the more it means theyre just a desensitized sound that coems out of you liek a trigger reflex when your swatting a fly. Youre not really thinking about killing the fly, youre just doing it. So you say you're sorry, and you say you love, and you say youre sad. but if anyone called you out on it, youd snap like a kid caught with theirt hands in a cookie jar. 

They werent supposed to know that your gentle words are just a tool, or a shield, or a habit. Cause in the end youre just empoty as those words are.

Buta fter four hours of driving, on a hot old car that is loosing its grip on the radio and loud radio playing some sun cooked tape filled with classic rock from the reightoies that now sounds deformed and messed up by time, your head enters a limbo where its actually empoty of any thought.

Which is what you try to obtain with binge drinking weekends, drugs and pills. To not have those thoughts or at least have an excuse for when they erupt in disjointed pained rambling out of your mouth. I was drunk, i didnt mean that, Cause yes, people say that "in vino veritas" b ut everyone is so terrified of that being true. Cause so many decnt people become monsters when they drink. So that would mean that everyone is a monster within. And that woudl make everytyhing crumble wouldnt it.

Cause when youre drunk and howling you can actually sscream out loud to everypone how a fight on the phone with your girlfriend who was supposed to be your true eternal love has just cemented yout thought. Which is that trusting another person is the most inhuman deformity that people have tricked themselv es into: Cause all you can trust is what you can see. When the other person is away from your eyes all it takes them to fail you is a mintue. And then youll have to forgive ort forget or just not know it. but in the end those things will pile up. Cause no matter how strongly you worked to build a castle. all it takes to destroy it is one night of breeze. So all those words of tyrust are just a trick to numb the truth, which is just the fatc that in the end, it will crumble. 

And while you are not thinking about that, cause all that stuff is out for once, on vacation in hell. Your car spoins out of control. And you spin and smash your head. And you feel no pain. You feel epaceful cause you're about to die. And all that yammering about living your life has now no more purpose or meaning. The fear of not living right, the doubts, the bein afraid of death, has no meaning. its over nwo and theres nothing you can do about it. Done. 

And then Its blackout. if you live, its all over again. Cause like adicts to pain and awareness and biotterness as soon as you started being close to it youll do it again. If you die it's over. 

Heads or tail, you choose. 

How To Kill Your Heart

There's a curious and unsettling side effect to the evnts that life places in front of you, that is hitting me hard today. And since i am plagued by self awareness and some sort of vaguely morbid love for introspection, i am trying to decipher it.

As a scientist of the non-existent, which means that i generally love to analyze things that could be eaily left alone with no consequence, and do it with some sort of borderline obsessive method, i have to observe this phenomenon and realize what it is.

Step A: I Have Seen it happening before

It was almost like a seasonal blossoming of flowers and fruit. Or the pus oozing form infected wounds. No matter how passionate, how smart and sensitive people i knew were. After a good amount of frustrated dreams, a traumathic event like an illness, an accident or an unwanted, or too wanted, pregnancy, they would become numb. They would, maybe twist and turn like fireworks, focusing their anger towards ways of thought they never had before, turning conservative and almost fascist when they used to be liberal. Becoming hyper aware of encvironmentalism or, in many cases, settling in the land of mental oblivion that is the world of conspiracy theories. But in the end, the winner is apathy and cynicism. Always. The numbing, almost cozy embrace of irnoic indifference got them all. Why did it happen? they were not born that way. What happened to their spirits. How did their soul die?

Step B:  Being Hit Slowly By The Phenomenon

I am a passionate person. After defeating depresssion, which manifested in me through violent explosions of emtional distress, whether it was over the top manic anger, happiness, or  the like. The cure, as i mentioned before, was a chemical treatment that suippressed any sort of emotional peak, making the down moments more bearable buit also nulled any sort of high or edge. Trying to get off of that, forced me to put a stron ordert in my life and a strong control over my emotions. I had to learn how to not feel "too much" but also to be able to still have any feelings at all and deal with the eventual pain or disappointments. Things seemed to be changing again.

Recently earthquakes, recession, frustration and a lot of strange holes in logica are all around me. I am equally disgusted by people who show utter indifference or the ones who show obsessiveness about the problem. The over intellec tualizing people who spend waxing paragraphs on the reasons of tragedy. The ones who use irony and cynical inappropriate humour tpo detach themselves from everything that happens, but aòlso the obsessive weepers, the people who seem to thrive on sadness, who seem to be dwelling in a permanent state of complaint instead of actual action or need for information,.

I despise the obsession for knowing the truth, who naturally takes people towards rambling ridiculousness but i also despise the gleeful indifference that has one rule: fuck everything and everyone except me. And id espiser how the total lack of interest for news or culture seems to be the key to living.

And yet.

It is the easiest way

Step C: Understanding the Symptoms

Let's face, thertes no amount of words, essays and arhguments that can be used or written about how "love conquers all" or "indifference wont win". It is not tthe truth. For two very simple reasons:

- The very people who say that "love conquers all" and "indifference wont win" are often loveless and indifferent towards anyone except themselves. Same can be said for the ones that treasure culture, unity, tolerance and reason. Their arttitude rejects others, negating those very principles. That is because, u undeniably, hate is a natural aspect of people. And even when reworded as love, its still hate. And 9its more hoinest than any from of bogus love. And in the end that brings us to the very corte of this thing

- Being numb feels good


There is a reason for which people get on drugs. For which they follow cults that help them into mass hypnosis. For which they are loveless and indifferent and end up settling into a complete stasis that takes away their passion, feelin gs and interest towards the world and its inhabitants.

When i talk to someone who is numb and apathetic, they dont suiffer. I do.
When i have feelings towards people and the world, they often bring pain and fear with them.

Opening up the heart, caring, trying to convince people, is torrturous.

In various degrees:

- You love something strongly, a musician, a place, a movie. You try to convince others about it, to spread the word. Youre meeet by indifference. You're the one who suffers, not them. So, fuck it.

- You care for a cause por invest emotion into a situation. Eventual disappointment will come. You will suffer. A cynical person wont.

Apoathy is soothing. And if youre a good actor you can mask apathy as sensitivity and actually exploit people's good heart. And win.


I dont have that disease in me, but i understand it. Not sure what that makes of me. But i had to analyse. Thats also a disease.