Allergic to humans (a serial killer in the making)

I went to visit a couple I know. 

I returned home incensed and disappointed with the human race.

I am tired of human beings. I know the particular people aren't the paragon of open-mindedness, yet I was reminded of it, and if I had been reminded of it in fifty years, it would have been too soon.

You know what? I am disgusted by humans in general. I am sick and tired of hearing the characterisation 'abnormal' for those whose sexuality doesn't agree with the speaker's point of view. My stomach turns by the fact we live in a society that 'normal' is the majority's point of view, and the majority expresses close-minded, homophobic, misogynistic, racist, sexist, insulting and patronising points of view. They label their bias arguments and then call me insulting because I don't want to discuss with them. No, when you are saying about someone "his ass was itching and asking for it" because they are gay, I am sorry, I don't want to discuss with you. I don't want to discuss with a person who links morality and ethics with an anatomical orifice. I don't want to discuss with someone who labels 'degenerate' another human being they don't know just because they know their sexuality, and demean their value as person based on that. What I want to do instead is get in one of those ships we sent to space to give to aliens information about the human race. I would have included the following information on the sketch of our solar system: a gigantic red "X" on earth, with a note that would read "BOMB HERE" in the five most-spoken languages of the galaxy. Please bomb us before our stupidity breaks free of all boundaries and infects the rest of the universe with the disgusting vomit we call mental processes. We are the cancer of this solar system, high and mighty bacteria with delusions of grandeur that need to be exterminated asap. PLEASE come here and wipe us out of existence. Honestly, I don't mind dying if I'm going to take all the stupid ones with me. It will be the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of the planet, solar system, equilibrium, you name it. To paraphrase Sherlock Holmes, we lower the IQ and empathy of the entire galaxy. We need to go back into being stardust, in the hope of forming something better next time. I don't want the kind ones to die too, but you know what, they will probably suffer less if they stop being surrounded by the stupid ones, so to hell with it. Kill us all, turn us into dust. Leave the planet be, she is perfectly innocent. But show no mercy to humans. I swear to you I will be thanking you with my last breath.

I know I should not bother. I know others are not my problem or my responsibility. I know I should not take it personally or become angry. But you know what? It's too fucking many of them and they are fucking everywhere. I don't dare open my mouth and express my true opinion on anything anymore, for fear of running into one of them. And I DO. I do run into them, they are like clockwork, they are more widespread than hydrogen. I have to police my mouth because I belong to the minority who thinks that all people regardless of colour, gender, age, sexuality, religion, etc, need to be treated as human beings, need to be protected, given food, water, shelter, education, health insurance, and a safe place where they can live and flourish and love and grow old by the side of the ones they love. I HAVE TO HIDE THIS FROM OTHERS OR I HAVE TO FIGHT AND ARGUE WITH THEM BECAUSE I BELIEVE IN THOSE THINGS, I BELIEVE EVERYONE DESERVES TO BE HAPPY AND SAFE. I HAVE TO LISTEN TO THEM CALL OTHERS ABNORMAL, DISGUSTING OR PROVOKING BECAUSE THEY HAVE A DIFFERENT SEXUAL ORIENTATION. AND I ALSO HAVE TO LISTEN TO THEM TELL ME I'M THE WEIRD ONE BECAUSE I CAN'T LISTEN TO OTHER OPINIONS THAN MY OWN, AND HAHA, HINT HINT, THIS REVEALS I AM THE ONE WITH THE CLOSED MIND. REALLY NOW?

If those aliens came and bombed us tomorrow, I would have died screaming, "what the fuck took you so goddamn long?"

And this is the reason I cry every single time I remember my late friend. BECAUSE SHE WASN'T LIKE THAT. AND THERE ARE SO FUCKING FEW OF US, SWIMMING UPSTREAM WITH OUR IDEALS AND HOPES, AND WE BECOME FEWER EVERY YEAR. THAT'S WHY I FUCKING CRY. 

FUCK YOU ALL. I AM SICK OF YOU. DIE ALREADY. DO THIS PLANET A FAVOUR, DO ME A FAVOUR AND DIE ALREADY. LEAVE ME ALONE.

Needless to say, I won't be visiting that couple again any time soon. 

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Some thoughts on "thank you".

You can call me self-centered or an attention whore. You can call me selfish. You can call me naive, but I am still going to write about this: it doesn't hurt to say "thank you".

I am a member of bookmooch.com, a very nice site for book exchange. The whole system operates on points. You give books you don't need, get points, then use those points to get books you want. Good? Good.

I have stated in my profile I don't mind sending books even if the other member doesn't have the necessary points. Anyone can message me and ask for a book and I will be only too happy to send it to them. What really matters to me is sending the books I don't need to those people who want them. So, when a member asked for a book and they didn't have points, I accepted. When I emailed them with my acceptance, they said it was very kind of me to do that. 

A month and a half passed. I emailed them and asked them if they had received the book. No answer whatsoever. Of course the book could have been lost in the post, or beamed up by aliens to another galaxy, but would it really hurt so much to write back and say, "Hi, I'm sorry, I haven't received it" or "Yes, thank you, it arrived"? That's all I expect. One line of text telling me they received it. And if I'm not asking for too much, two more words: thank you. They never replied to verify either scenario. And this is not a one time occurrence. I've lost count of the times I have given or sent something to someone without expecting reciprocation, to receive absolute silence as the answer. It doesn't happen only with bookmooch. It happens with everyone and everything. It's an overwhelming new mentality of goldfish attention span and thick skin. One would have thought I run a multidimensional scam operation and as soon as they said "thank you" their name would be automatically added to an infernal register and after that, they and their children and their children's children would be damned for all eternity to serve my dark lord Boiled Broccoli. I don't know what is to blame for this mentality. The wayward planets? The overuse of mobiles? The anarchist communist black Jews who are the Saurians who hide behind the Freemasons who rule the White house by shooting laser beams from their asscheeks? Or maybe the fact so many people live, drive, fuck with their heads so deeply shoved inside their asses they have no clue? Your guess is as good as mine.

Hey. Yes, you. All those 'you' I've come across. I only want to know you got the damn book. Saying "I received it, thank you" does not hurt you in any way. Acknowledging isn't shameful. It doesn't affect your statutory rights. It doesn't affect your health, lifestyle or coiffure. But it does affect mine. It makes me less and less willing to send anything to anyone when they can't be arsed to spend maybe thirty seconds of their glamorous life to type a few words and press the 'send' button. It makes me angry and frustrated that humans pay attention to you only if they have something to gain. It makes me consider not giving anything for free ever again, but hell, I don't want to become like the ones I described. I enjoy giving. I enjoy making others smile. 

Maybe that's my real problem.

Catch 22

I love writing. I swear I do. But there are times I stare at the screen and want to break it. I feel beyond tired, beyond exhausted, beyond empty. 

What gives value to our efforts is time. The more time you spend on an activity, the more important it becomes for you. The reason you hate giving up on a person or activity you've spent years on is exactly that; time. Time is what validates everything, and it cannot be replaced, influenced, bought or brought back. It's the coin we give in exchange for meaning, the one parameter that cannot be omitted in the equation of understanding. It's the funniest thing; every passing moment brings more meaning to our life while making it smaller by that same amount of time. 

Time passes, inevitably, inexorably, mercilessly. The same eyes that stared at me in the mirror years ago stare back at me now, and yet I am not the same person. The only thing that authenticates our existence, makes us mature, that may even make us happy, is the thing that kills us. So I suppose what we should do is use it wisely. Choose what to do with the time we have at our disposal.

There is enough time for everything.

Everything happens in the right time.

So billions of people before me thought, and so billions of people after me will think. 

That they have time.

Oh, I know, I know, I am becoming obsessive; I am losing sight of the bigger picture. There is happiness out there too. Love, friendship, hobbies, art, so many sources of joy, so many distractions. Right now I could be out, seeking love, or friendship, or cheap thrills of any kind. Most of the time this translates as discussing existential questions with people who don't understand what it means to exist. It's so much fun. I see through all. I see their despair, their need to be loved, and the wrong ways they try to achieve it. I see through humans. I see through them and they are dirty, they are desperate, they are petty and disgusting. Then I feel pity for them, and for the human race as a whole, and I include myself in it. I see the very foundations of their misconceptions, the roots of their deprivation, and I still manage to feel pity because I know what they crave is love. They crave what they never had, or what they had a twisted ghost of. And so they make the same mistakes again and again and marvel at the fact the result is the same, they marvel at the fact they get hurt again and again. And one day, there is no more time to make the same mistakes. As Buddha said, the problem is, you think you have time. You don't. You fucking don't.

I am a hermit by choice, voicing out my deepest thoughts and needs to those few ones I know won't hurt me. They won't judge me for how weak or silly I may be, the same way I won't pass judgement on the rest of humanity for how silly and petty and desperate they are. I am spending my days and nights in front of a screen, working on a book, making it better, trimming it, polishing it, making it as good as I can. I could be out, talking to others, listening to the same questions and the same answers for the umpteenth time. I choose not to. I choose to walk the streets alone at dusk, talking to flowers and trees instead of humans, listening to music or the breeze or the chatter of birds instead of my own kind. Because I know my own kind cannot give me answers. The only answer is found in the silent toil in front of a screen, rewriting, erasing, perfecting what I have created. 

 

I don’t expect fame, or money, or even understanding. There is a story that needs to be told, it demands to be released out there. I struggle with so many demons to make that happen. I struggle with boredom, CVs, tiredness, headache, a language that’s not my mother tongue, distractions, and you wouldn’t have guessed it; time. I struggle with all those demons inside and outside and word by word I carve my way, sweating with the effort, cursing, despairing, straining like I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I write and erase and re-read and re-write and ache, literally ache with how long it takes, and how that time will never be returned to me, and it will be what makes this book important. It’s the one parameter that gives it meaning. It’s the payment I have to make to make it work. A part of my life, countless hours, days, months spent on it, and looking back I don’t regret a single moment. I just wonder what kind of life this is, and what it offers.

I don’t write to be loved or get laid. I write because there is no other way I’d rather spend that time. There is nothing else I love more in order to devote that time to that person or activity. I know that once the book is out some will love me for it, and some will hate me for it. It makes no difference. They do not know how many nightfalls found me struggling over a keyboard, how many dawns found me re-reading the same text with aching eyes. They cannot comprehend the happiness I experienced while I watched it take form bit by bit. They can’t understand the frustration I had to overcome, the resolve I had to show, the pain of not finding the right word or the next occurrence. They can’t guess how many days and nights I spent walking empty streets and listening to music in order to untangle a part of the plot. They can’t possibly know I chose that over going out and meeting with friends, or seeking love. And all these facts are also the reasons they can’t take it from me. They can’t make me regret, or change my mind, or doubt whether I spent my time wisely. No-one can make me hate it or disregard it. I know what I did. I know why I did it; because nothing else would have made me happier. That’s why. And the reason I wrote it like I did is because I, and not someone else, wrote it.

Next time you read a book, remember you are bearing witness to how a part of someone’s life was spent. I wish you to be lucky enough to come across those books that were written because the writer loved them so much they wouldn’t have spend that time in a different way. I wish you to find those books that they’re not the voice of the writer, but all those voices of dusks walked in silence, and dawns that arrived without any sleep. I wish you to find those books the writer had no choice but to complete, or go crazy with the voices inside their head. 

I hope my book will be one of them. I hope my book will be as deep and as quenching for your thirst as it was for mine.

Time, time, time.

Will I ever find the one who will make me forget about writing for a while?

Where are you?

Maybe you’ll show up in due time.

Time. Ha ha ha.

God/dess, I am so tired. But there is writing to be done.

Goodnight.

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Are you sure about that?

Cause if you are, that's okay.
You can tell me, you know. You can tell me the truth. I won't tell anyone.
I would never tell anyone.
You've trusted me with your secrets before. I didn't pity you for them. I didn't patronise or judge you.
Once you told me that my stories made you feel awkward and freaked you out because it was like I knew those secrets of your past you had told no-one else.
That didn't stop you from reading my entire blog.
There was a ticket bought for me that went to someone else, and a promise you wanted to keep and didn't manage to. That's okay.
But please, let me know. Somehow, in some way, tell me I need to stop crying because you are okay. And I will keep it a secret.
All I want is to stop crying.
Please.
I won't tell anyone. I swear I won't.
I just need closure, even if you never speak to me again afterwards. I won't ask you to.
Just one phrase, or one word.
Tell me you are okay.
Goodnight.

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Fairy walk

https://itoshii-sanagi.tumblr.com/post/675472969388179456/requiem-on-water-by-khalilofearth

 

https://www.instagram.com/pnwonderland/ 

Screaming in my sleep, keeping my thoughts to myself when I wake up.

Out of touch with my core, so I took a fairy walk today.

There is so much beauty and so much ugliness in the world.

I can see both.

I walked in a green place with spring flowers; red poppies and pink anemones and yellow daisies and little purple wild flowers. I spoke to trees, caressed their twigs and leaves. Thunder rumbled in the distance and from time to time, drops of rain fell on my face like tears from the heavens.

I can see everything as a moment frozen in time. As a snapshot of beauty. I see the vibrant colours, the different shapes, the orgiastic multitude in form. Not two leaves on a tree are alike. Not even human twins are identical, though their DNA is.

If I shift my perception, I spot decay in the same effortless manner I perceive beauty; the yellowed leaf, the dead insect, the dry branch. They are as real as their living brothers and sisters.

I see whole worlds in people's eyes. I see their inner beauty shining. And at the same time, at the wrinkles of their very smiles I read the finality of their deaths, the finite amount of time they have at their disposal.

It will all be gone, I want to scream. It will be gone. Stop fighting with each other, stop sweating the small stuff. Stop killing the planet and bombing innocents and make your loved ones hate you. It’s more fragile than you think, and it’s completely unique. It will all be gone. It will not be forever. You are not forever, so be here. Don't live on borrowed time, on plans for a future that may never come. Don't live inside your head and play stupid head games. Be here with us. Be kind to each other. There is so much pain already, so much death and fear. Don't add to it. Please don't. 
 

Heaven and hell are here and now.

Choose one.

The god you choose is the god you deserve.

But even if I do scream, who will listen?

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