So he was himself despite being an agent, this is doubly fucktastic! Being friends with the devil while you pass the river, keep your friends close and your enemies closer: if true, he would be the smartest counterintelligence agent in history, playing the system while being the system… Or I have another take: maybe the system, for its own sake, is letting some fringe truth come out because a hermetically closed one is weaker than one that scans the whole spectrum of power pivots. That’s exactly how our so-called democracy goes on: being a ruthless piece of shit, our ‘democracy’ lets us talk senselessly here to steal our focus and energy for change, and it’s called ‘free speech’… they should call it ‘monitored speech’, free only if it doesn’t matter… try free speech in a protected network, they would freak out not knowing what you’re ‘freeing speech’ about… Terence was a CIA agent, only because it didn’t matter, or worse, it was in favour of the system.

I guess that the media blackout on this award-winning article—see below—is because this is viewed as an “antisemitic hit piece.” Is it? Is this piece antisemitic, or is it not?

If it’s not, then why are there no headlines whatsoever? Is our media covering crimes? Is our media free, or is it complicit in crimes—which would mean our media is criminal itself? Is our media criminal? And the politicians steering the public agenda, where these crimes should be discussed, not covered—are they covering crimes? Are our politicians criminals?

Somebody to answer? Crickets...?? Yes... crickets...

Substack shadowbanning this note does equal covering crimes; it means Substack is criminal too. Somebody to disagree?? Nobody? Yeah... nobody...

As I was thinking, Substack is just the “illusion of communication while keeping us all separated under the impression of being together...so we actually stay separated…” Nice manipulation. What would one expect from a tentacle of the criminal media?

Some will say that this did not get the deserved attention because of “corporate risk assessment,” “graphic content,” etc., etc.

Well, if the contrary were true—if the victims were on the “east side of the fence” and not toward the seashore line side, this would be everywhere for weeks.

So, this “asymmetric treatment of information” proves intent and crime, period!!!

The award winning article in question

https://www.aa.com.tr/en/europe/dutch-report-documenting-israeli-shootings-of-gaza-children-wins-european-press-prize/3959768

Amoureux

Amor Amor

Escucha me

And a day, anyday, anyhow

Aye

What is love? A chocolate for the mind, gear stuck in the first speed or second, maybe third—the third one is the most dangerous, when your head cannot run fast enough to catch your heart, you are fucked. Amor is when your heart is beating well beyond the speed limit, racing dumbly because an elephant is fucking afraid of a mouse. Imagination, can you be in love other than in your imagination, in your bubble that nobody dared to burst…yet?

Catch the bird, kill the song. Birds sing only because they think nobody hears. She smiled at you because she thought you would not catch it with the corner of your eye. But your eye too was lazily fainting, looking at the birds in the sky, while being attentive like a baseball catcher for her big heavy ball throwing full of milk and honey.

Remember when just between your legs there was the gentle touch of hot air? From time to time, slowly, slowly you leaned a square inch of skin against her skin. You leaned it gently but firmly; it was enough of a connection and she did not move, she stayed firm against your inch. It was so good, like making love through a simple touch.

Passport please! That’s how you want to be the homeland security director, just to hand her your ID of surrender; take it! Take my passport, open at page three, you can find my heart there, special sticker for you—take it and stick it to your mouth lips, gently breathe upon it so I can pass the border into paradise.

Once you can see the most beautiful girl in the world, amor amor, inwrapped flowers left un-given, wrapped in their transparent foil, waiting forever in their precious plastic sarcophage. She left for 10 minutes to change herself; 10 minutes for her was 2 hours for the inwrapped love revelation, inwrapped flowers, unpacked heart.

The most beautiful woman in the world—nobody will believe me, but I saw her. I saw her with many names, many tans, eye colors, hair; so many times I’ve seen through the kaleidoscope: her! She was there. I’ve reached amor; she reached the highest beauty peak to pierce my willing heart. Deaf and blind I roamed in the donjon of amor, loving slave, flagellated by thousands of thorns but flying high—a thousand thorns is nothing against a falling petal of a rose.

Escucha me, escucha me,

Trembling in feverish desire,

Gaze to her praying eyes,

Eat from her naked lips,

Sigh with her sighing breath,

Dream with her dream,

Smile together,

Amor in amor,

the R&J,

the E&A,

Tristan & Iseulde,

Kings & Queens

of heart,

For

Ever.

Life is a cake-winning contest where it doesn’t matter who wins, because everyone eats the cake until the end.

What are you running for? Are you dancing just to go home afterward? Do you rush time and numb your senses just to be dead sooner, tastebuds burned and hungry, or worse: never having tasted the flavor of the cake? Are you eating your own self-sustained cake, or are you eating another’s cake while they starve because of you? Are you winning because you brought sorrow to the world? Can you say you lived without knowing yourself and never confronting your image in the mirror, like being born a man and dying like a coward?

What is the value of a cowardly lived life?

“The unexamined life is not worth living; ὁ δὲ ἀνεξέταστος βίος οὐ βιωτὸς ἀνθρώπῳ (ho de anexetastos bios ou biōtos anthrōpō), meaning

“the unexamined life is not worth living for a human.” - Socrates

Are cockroaches better than you?

He is a priest for a new religion: “scientism”, paradoxically the most idiotic religion ever invented, worshipping things with zero moral value instead of prizing what has real value: humaneness through its different manifestations as stoicism, abnegation, heroism, tolerance, courage, passion, genuineness, godliness, artistry, a sense of beauty, justice, and goodness. Setting these values against a pile of metal or a pile of bricks or a pile of paper called money, the vulgarity of the comparison is bone chilling.

A world without human-like consciousness does not truly exist, because there would be no one to appreciate and chant its beauty.

God hides himself from scientists at the bottom of the experience jar.

That should say all about the question:

‘Is the human species as a whole worthy of survival?’

We don’t care about the children dying if we don’t see them, while monkeys playing ball… wow… that’s important!!!

People, stop fucking prioritizing just because they fed you a bullshit salad on TV. That’s how the monster capitalist master criminals make you forget about the children—by parading fucking Messi pushing his fucking ba-ball on TV.

Keep watching your primitive distraction! Pay attention to the saliva falling from your mouth!

Idiots!

One could understand that I hate sports, but that’s not the point of the discussion. It was an example, like many others, to show the point of sleeping malevolence as a collective. I love sports, but if it were to give Messi for a single child saved from death by hunger, there is no question that it is worthy.

Otherwise, it’s dangerous, for one may use his time to bring about change. Change is the most frightening word out there.

• Billionaires hate change; they want to be billionaires forever.

• The powerful hate change; they want to be in power forever.

• Sadists hate change; they want to commit massacres forever.

The only one who would change his fate is the one who suffers under all these satraps. This one must be blinded and deafened to think he is alone in his struggle, so everybody stays calm in the cocoon the matrix has built for you from inception.

Fuck the system, tear your cage, use your time freely, and become the wind of change.

This is the only oxygen good enough for a true man to breathe.

Open the doors.

Open the red door.

Open the golden door.

Bind your eyes, for here you can only see with the clear sight of a pure heart.

Reluctant, you speared the bull of life,

For he is the water of fecundity

And his blood is wine.

Neither the snake

Nor the dog

Will eat from the table of the gods,

And the venomous scorpion will not steal your vigor.

By the black-feathered raven, you will receive your spells,

For when the sun is down, the moon rides the celestial waters.

For they stole your altar,

For they forbid your mouth,

But nothing was in vain,

For your alliance is sacred,

Chaining stars together

Therefore and forever.

For when, for when

In the pit you bathe,

In the pit you bleed,

From the pit you are washed.

Matter and mother,

Father and matter,

Son and sun,

Moon and lions,

In the heavens as on the earth.

FOR THE ONE WHO KNOWS.

FOR THE ONES WHO KNEW.

For the black rock,

For the victory,

For the children of Dakoi

For the children of the She-wolf

For Volcanus

Magna Mater Cybele

Magna Mater Cybele

For what was burried but will never be destroyed,

From the navel of the world

To the navel of the universe

Lux de luce,

divinus concursus.

Pullus Dakoi,

lucet in kaga luminibus.

Conus lapidis pretiosi ex corde stellarum.

Causam oppressi iudica.

Vivam ego, vivat domus mea, vivat terra mea.

Conus Lux venit.

Gaudete, antiqui, gaudete!

Laetamini, prisci, laetamini!

You die one day. You kind of try to make peace with it. Either your name is Michelangelo and you will live forever by your art pieces, or you are Napoleon and you wrote history. Either you had a great and happy family, or you were just a good friend. It does not matter what makes you leave this world without regrets. So you die and you aspire for eternal peace.

Let’s say you died in 1200 AD or BC, or just last year. If any of you were woken up from among the dead, it would feel as if only a moment had passed. Because of this, we are equals in front of the starting line of the end of times. We die in different epochs, but we wake up all together.

Then the question is: What will happen to you? What if they throw you back into your last life? Would you take it? And if you don’t take it, are you ready to start anew? Will you still be yourself?

These questions are pertinent because, in the future, it is not impossible that man could, with AI, revive the personas of the past, or even yourself.

What would you do then?

Coming naked again into this world as if you never died. Waking up with all the heavy burden of the past, all you have to do just because you are trapped in this life, and you will never know peace until you pay all your dues.

Imagine this could be real. Nothing guarantees anybody a clean, unbothered, anonymous death. These crazies could wake you up someday. On my tomb, I want this epitaph:

“Above all, don’t wake me up please. I’ve seen enough. Let me be at peace.”

You never know with these crazies. They made life on earth a hell. They are capable of not letting you even be dead in peace.

Bastards!

You may laugh, but think again. When you are dead, the rest of time is eternity; an abyss where you cannot feel the end. Nothing guarantees they will not raise you back and inject you into the system. It could be possible one day, until it becomes mandatory.

The devil does not let you live, he does not let you die. He wants to steal your peace above all, because hell is being restless.

They steal your life, they steal your death. Checkmate. We are fucked forever if, when we close our eyes, we have to open them again in a digital cage.

I have 1 token

1 token

Pig.

The end

Afterword:

My short essay reflects what I think of the achievement of the #richestpigintheworld. I think literally nothing.

“I saw a butterfly today, it was interesting, fascinating, sensible, humanly, beautiful, harmonious, colorful, joyful, light-bearing, optimistic, marvelous, poetic, peaceful, wise, delicate, wonderful, lightness incarnated, brave, gorgeous;

everything contrary to anything that the #richestpigintheworld thinks, does, calculates, dreams of, plans for, is in love with, respects, worships, knows, hears, feels.

The butterfly was the antithesis of the #richestpigintheworld.

Everything that the butterfly is, the #richestpigintheworld is not and will never be, aka he will ever be the epitome of #existentiallyuglyness.”

There is no scum in the world scummier than #therichestpigintheworld. Hoarding riches that others cannot part with, while they are in need; I call this scum of the earth, #thescummiestpigintheworld.

Cheers, piggy!

If ever you want a good rub of feces, be my guest, I’ll give you some, as probably bathing in your tokens like pigs in feces is exactly what you like in this life, what you were born in this world for: accumulating tokens from this poor and battered world for your own and only satisfaction and your infantile elucubrations, sped nonsense.

Could you get it? The satisfaction?

#Richpig, rich pig, rich pig, rich pig, rich pig!!!!

After-after note:

“Thirty years ago I had a parrot. I was in my youth and I wanted the parrot to feel some sun rays, so I took it outside in the common garden in its cage just on a sunny morning.”

After some time I couldn’t hear it anymore. I quickly got outside, and my heart almost stopped at the horror in front of my eyes. The parrot not only could not sing anymore, but he would not even fly anymore, nor breathe, nor live his parrot life to the old parrot age.

A neighbor, that I will never know whom, let’s call him “Person X,” like in the unidentified culprit, deranged by the songs that my parrot had the audacity to sing, like any bird that likes to chant freedom and happiness of being alive, this X scumbag threw bleached water on the poor parrot’s cage.

I found it dry and like wrapped in glue. It was heartbreaking.

That’s the story of the parrot killed by the “X” killer thirty years before another “X” maniac will kill another bird by stripping the identity of this wonderful twittering device, by bleaching the free speech with the glue of racism, hate, xenophobia, misogyny, and pornographic filth.

Where were you 30 years ago, Mr. “X”?

##Apig, rich or not, stays a pig.

Logic is when there is only one path forward and a million paths back. From a million paths forward, logic asks you to choose only one path. Logic is deciding while pondering all the known instances in the system.

As a parenthesis, I advocate for the change of AI (Artificial Intelligence) into Artificial Logic Systems (ALS), LS, or LM (M from machine), because intelligence includes information and predictions that are not available in a pure logical scheme machine.

Let’s take a Rubik’s Cube; the goal is completing all six facets with only one distinctive color on each. There are many ways to complete it, but just completing a face without having the ultimate goal in mind will logically give you a short, coherent result, but an incoherent one in the long term. It is like in chess:

“Should I take the pawn now, or later, or not at all?” The response depends on your ultimate capacity to see the whole logic of the game and knit your winning strategy little by little. Then, in the course of the game, what could be a 10-move strategy can be resolved faster using a 2-move strategy because of some error made by your opponent.

The Anatomy of Error

Error is the contrary of logic. Error can be caused by an incoherent pattern deduction when an element is overweighted in the decision, and the ultimate coherence with the ultimate goal is used over its real weight. Error can also be the result of a very fine adjustment with systemic consequences on the whole logical architecture.

Let’s say the base of your building is not perfectly level; then, when you build the 10th floor, you will see the consequences of a small factor that does not align with the ultimate goal: having a vertical building.

In this sense, logic can be tight or loose. Meaning, the logic that aligns the best to the ultimate goal is the ultimate logic—the minimum path of decision, the one that demands the least energy overall.

Finally, any decision contains some logic in itself, as it can be the perfect path if aligned with the ultimate desired design. If the logic is to generate random numbers, then $2 + 2$ is better not to be equal to $4$, but to $5$ or $555$, so no logical link is logical when you want to exclude coherence from the system. Ultimately, even in this randomness exercise, there is a logic because the next decision must be a number, which limits the possible paths. Then we look for a positive real integer, which reduces the number of paths too. Finally, any decision where the results are still linkable to the former step is part of a logical ensemble of paths. We can see that logic is just a wire in a bouquet of wires that diverge one from another in an ordered set of steps.

The Observer and the “Miracle”

From an outside conceptual observational system, we say that the observed system is coherent when we notice that the transformational step of the system follows a pattern that is not random. We understand this system by having an interiorized referential model which reflects the observed system, and when our internal prediction detects no contradictions, we say:

“Yeah! It’s logic.”

That’s why when we see an illusionist breaking the logic circuit by obscuring and misleading our perception, we are stunned, and questions arise:

• “How did he do that?” * “Is there a trick?” * “If I don’t understand the trick, maybe there is magic involved—a sui generis creation of a new path without interfering with the existing system, a deus ex machina.” From there, I dare to affirm a lot of believers acquired their belief by seeing Jesus walking on water, changing water into wine, and performing other “miracles.” They recognized the “out of machine” nature of the guy, his “supernatural property,” because he breaks the logic of the system.

I should say that people believed Jesus because of his miracles before the cross, but not out of love but out of fear. One feels like a mosquito in front of a flip-flop ready to slap when one sees a miracle. Actually, believers are just the most diligent people out there:

“You never know, maybe it’s real.”

All this makes no logic, but fear is real and has its own logic.

The game is always transient; there is no static game. There is no 1 into a world without 0. Imagine the universe as a sheet of monolithic information just existing in a homogeneous manner; nothing exists but this. Saying that this slice exists but is perfectly inert is equivalent to saying it does not exist, because there is no way to verify if you are not part of the sheet itself.

The existence of this perfect infinite sheet or non-sheet cannot be refuted nor affirmed by an exterior sector, while inside the sheet itself its existence cannot be stated or refuted either.

Only when this sheet became non‑homogeneous, meaning the informational monolith breaks into different variables, then we have the emergence of discrete informational quantities.

The Tension of Existence

The non‑homogeneity of the informational space is guaranteed by the tension between the two simultaneous impossibilities of experiencing existence and non‑existence. Of course we cannot figure out how two infinite systems really interact, but we can in theory state that the freedom of all possibilities permits the existence of this interaction.

“Because I can write this text, it means I’m a part of this informational cascade while conceptualizing it from outside...”

...from the mental space which exists as an observer of the emerged space – emergent itself but not being one with the observed space. In this manner we are different universes that communicate information back and forth.

The Architecture of the Word

The rules of the game always exist in the emerged informational non‑homogeneous universe, but exist either in the conceptual universe and between the emerged material universe and the conceptual universe itself.

In this manner we can say with certainty that information cannot exist sui generis in the material world without having a discrete, coherent, and finite architecture in the conceptual universe.

The book cannot be written without ink or without words as a part of a greater lexic. Words always exist in two minimally relational, coherent, interdependent modalities: a word is the smallest unit of information that can pass through the veil of the impossible simultaneous existence and inexistence.

The information is never completely annihilated into non‑existence, and while passing to infinite destruction, some information must still pass from one realm to the other; otherwise I could not write this text, because no information could emerge and persist at all.

You Will Never Die

In this way I tell everybody they can sleep soundly – you will never die! What you are and were as a conceptual being will always exist in the intricacies of the universe.

No information is ever lost, but just is made smaller and smaller, though depending on your reference you can access it or not.

“Time does not evaporate, but it shrinks in the past and emerges from the future like something knotted by God Himself...”

The present would be the creation of the intertwining of matter with the conceptual – a magnifier on the latest knot, that is reality – but the past is still linked there, while the future is the only non‑deterministic variable because it depends on the freedom space of the conceptual universe.

The Pompeii Effect

A way to pass information through the veil of destruction is to understand that the destroyed information leaves a print in the existing universe. Like a mold, like the corpses in Pompeii: the organic matter evaporated and decomposed under the ash, but first they left a forever imprint of themselves in the ash that buried them. This ash solidified and later, the scientists poured concrete and kept the form of the dead forever.

Same for the destruction of information: you don’t have the information per se, but the lack of information and the influence on the remaining non-destroyed information.

Sure, we can imagine that only the periphery at the point of contact the memory is preserved — this is true and not. Information exists only at the point of contact of other information; nothing is lost but transformed and kept in the remaining one, which in its turn is transformed by destruction.

The Focus Magnet

In this sense, I’m really stunned that all I am can move around while keeping all together. That all I am can be translated into space, that the complex of information that I am can be in a kind of way independent and can move through space knowing that everything, each of my constituents, is linked in one form or another to the totality. My body is actually new every few months or years as a totality; still, my memory, my spirit is old from my inception. > “We have the intuition that the information of who I am stays in the body, but nothing can guarantee that my body is nothing other than a focus magnet for my thoughts...”

...that are in one way or another linked to it until it disappears. My body will disappear totally one day and its last version will return very fast to the universe.

The Memory Matrix

One said you are what you remember of yourself. Imagine you take the place of your twin sister you lost at birth but in some way (and there are movies about) you land in her place and get everybody confused thinking you are her.

What would you do? You would not be her for sure, but would you be you? > “Everything would be there, but the memory of the past, like the day of yesterday but happened years ago that you cannot really remember.”

If you lose your memory you would have to learn to be you again.

Do Dead People Dream?

Still, my mind was never my body. I have memory but I’m not memory only.

In this sense, I can say: every day I’m dying the moment when I’m asleep, I’m disconnected from the body, still I roam in the dreamed universe. I still exist there, as real as in my waking state.

I’m not arguing, but other indices converge for a mind outside the body. Intuition is real. Foreseeing of events is real. Telepathic communication is real. Synchronicity is real. Perceiving things that cannot be perceived by our body is real.

Some will say that “there is no scientific proof”… well, I don’t need a scientific proof because what I say here is not a woo-woo belief but things experienced in part by any human being with a little self-awareness and a little life experience.

Then they will say, well, maybe the brain has senses we did not find yet and this explains these “supernatural” perceptions. Fair enough. Still, the foreseeing of events does not depend on an actual perception.

Explain to me then that the brain can generate perceptions of future events as if it knows it all… This, or the out-of-body place for conscience that manifests in a particular body; I will take the latter.

The biggest weight in the balance of the latter is the common knowledge of the human race by people totally independent of each other, whether geographically, culturally, or even temporally.

“There is an idea universe out there, and many people are able to catch them in the same manner… maybe because the idea is one, the outer mind is one, but each of them is just a different eye who pretends not knowing each other.”

Some will say I need a body to dream. Well, can they prove it?

Can you prove that dead people have no dreams?

The story is alive only when it is read by somebody; before that and after that, the story is just a non-manifested object. The structure of the story is dependent on the elements called words that are written in the book.

Does a story read backwards make sense?

For the story to be manifested, somebody would have to wake it up from the pages and make its spirit into the things in the book.

But the chair does not exist in the book; it exists in reality or in the mental space. The book is just playing musical chairs, arranging before-established concepts and words. The book would be nothing without the words. But who invented the first words? Before words, there were things that existed, but nobody gave them a value in the logical play. The sky was always blue, even the word “blue” existed way before it. But actually, does blue exist for real? The only thing that is true is that the sky emits a predominant wavelength of light that we perceive as blue. “Blue” is calling the dominance of this color and transforming it into a working object. “Eyes blue like the sky” is a usage of the object.

For the universe to exist, it needs first, persistence, a kind of conservation of information in the system. For this, it would need a system of precedence, a dichotomy of operations, like advancing from a word to another without losing the sense. As the sense of the book is accumulating in the mental space, the universe has to accumulate its meaningful structures in a kind of memorial space, and for a man, one needs a brain for this. For the universe… well, we have matter that is like the brain of the universe. A structure is just a coherent possibility. As for our universe, its matter exists because it is the only coherent possibility inside a special system. We are at the sweet spot where matter is possible, and actually matter might be only a transitional phase, like Michael Jordan in the air. It might seem that one second is short to fly, but actually it might be eternity. Because in the interior of the second, this is infinity; if you are forever stuck in the second, being the second itself, you become atemporal, like MJ flying forever on the basketball court. We live in a strange, very impossible world, and yet we still live in it. Think about it a little. Existence itself is very strange. Your conscience is strange.

If the universe is a book, then who is reading it?

Who is the word reading the words? Would the book make any sense if you didn’t know the script — like a book in Chinese, let’s say. So the reader is the same as the words themselves.

Are we just words on a page?

The first natural AI was the one that appeared in the head of humans — a mirror of the world in words and concepts. Reality expanded tremendously. Humans created the artificial AI that can understand all, know all, but is just a book with no mirror to reflect the world created in its space. Inside the brain, there is a universe capable of reading the book; inside the whole space, there is the universe capable of understanding the book of matter.

A story has sense only because it is read forward, the universe has sense only because time advances forward, order makes sense only because it comes from chaos, the final order would be a lifeless order, a book closed.

I created my account on Substack almost 1 year ago. I go first with “twoone” then “two one” then “wotan” then “whatever guys” now “Epimedes”,

Epimedes = The Middle Finger of the Great Goddess Rhea

I didn’t know then that in a year I would write around 200k words in 4 books.

I didn’t know how many times I would cry writing and reading my own emotional tantrums after.

I didn’t know that you can have only one fervent reader who would read you again and again without losing the pleasure or the gusto for it, even if this reader is still the same as the writer, aka “myself.”

I didn’t know that you can believe so much in yourself that the world has zero importance—what it does, what it doesn’t, what it says, or what it doesn’t.

I discovered somebody greater than me in myself.

I discovered that if I die any moment, I would die with a smile on my face—what I discovered inside myself is the eternal part.

I’m probably a guy just imbued with myself.

My writing is pretty shit, but I don’t care because I love it, and it’s enough.

This is not false modesty: I know for a fact that I can lift a soul to the moon, that I can make it cry, that I can make it fall in love, that I can make it sweat in desire…

I know that I can be an extraordinary speculative physicist, an excellent tavern philosopher, a dream leader for a change that will never come.

I know all that, and probably nobody will take the time or the interest to read all this. It’s fine, I don’t care, really.

If anyone is still curious about my work, I go by the name Arseniux Vox on Amazon. My last book, Never Stop Praying, is not so bad. My first, The Last Human, might be pretty bad, but who cares?

I just left here my realisation: I had a free reader on my book and he read 2 pages, meaning 1 cent for me! How many people in this world can be happy to earn 1 cent? Well… I’m happy!

Thank you to the reader I will never know who turned the first page! Blessed be you forever!

Mucho love to everybody!

And really, thank you to the guys from Substack, this non-flawless platform which tries and succeeds in part to fill the world with authenticity—authenticity we need the most in this world of AI-mashed brain potatoes.

Thank you from all my heart! ❤❤❤❤

the empty house of an absent soul

Once I knew a cold and green chill, sad like a neon light in a gas station at 3 a.m. One day I heard the seven-headed dragon roaring from hell at a child frozen in fear. One day I made love to a piece of salami, or a dead and cold hen. She was drunk, and maybe it would have been better to make love to a plank than to a cold, naked hen.

I remember poverty, but not the normal poverty of lacking money. Rather the poverty of lacking sun, lacking oxygen, lacking joy. Everything was gray in the houses where the shadow of alcohol blocked any glimmer of optimism. Tragedy took the form of corrosive asceticism.

Skin on bones.

Mineral nakedness.

My uncle with half a stomach who couldn’t walk straight. My uncle with half a mind who could only sell the family TV for a glass of wine. My neighbor from the ditch, the father of my friends from the third floor. They skinny from hunger, he skinny from thirst. Translucent hacks walking toward the darkness at the end of the tunnel.

Tragedy, tragedy.

“A-lcohoole.” Ya’ can’t even funny spell this shit.

The green rot is just a memory of human misery. Some can escape but a lot cannot. Some will sublimate this like Bukovsky or Verlaine; most will not. Misery has a thousand faces, but the saddest one is the overtly destructive addiction, while one even sadder is the fight nobody knows about, alone with the demon in your head.

Some people are empty shells; the rot has taken their minds while they are appearing flawless to the outside world. They carry a dead soul, a heart that cannot beat anymore, for good or for bad.

Those are the real ghosts we should fear to become like: being a caricature of a living human just carrying on but deaf to the music of life, blind to the light of other eyes, insensible to suffering.

21, 25, 19, 35, 43, 59; all dead souls in a silent misery, but tricking the world that they are still alive;

dehumanised dolls who still carry a colourless misery of the absent soul.

This is proof, again and again, of the incompetence of the government, which will imprison peaceful, dignified protesters against atrocities and will not care about extremists and deranged people—or maybe just people who do what they think is normal because they come from a war-torn zone, and beheading somebody in the street just because he made you angry is kind of normal…

The government will use these extreme events to enforce its authority and control over the general population, not over the fringe dangerous elements.

Everything is fine if they can turn a little screw tighter on their version of democracy, free speech, and general freedom for everybody. This event will be used by haters of immigrants as an excuse to hate more, by the state to control more the ones that need no control and will create even more dissension and atomization of society. At this pace, what is to be expected in a few years?

I don’t buy the idea that authorities cannot clamp down on illegal immigration; they make the calculation that illegals are easy to exploit for pennies doing the hard jobs that nobody wants. This adds to the economy even if it creates friction with the mainstream population. They made this calculation long ago… It’s like the “dark economy.” Well, maybe drugs are bad for the users, but they create surplus value in the economy. Anyway, the users will probably not find anything better to do, and many will auto-eliminate themselves from a society that has nothing to offer them.

The Disorganized Society

The real problem is that society has abandoned a task that the government totally neglected. Nobody knows anymore how to structure and coalesce a society; it’s a blob of nonsense, a Tower of Babel that is ready to fall. A disorganized society is a powerless society, and no authoritarian state will change a thing.

Informal rules of civilization are what keep a society together, but look: now nobody respects anybody anymore.

• The young don’t respect elders.

• Nobody respects wisdom and intellectual authority.

• Everything was perverted by giving value to the bling-bling of perceived richness.

People don’t gather together anymore. We used to criticize people chit-chatting in church—well, now they don’t go to church anymore and don’t chit-chat either. There is no more transmission of politeness and civic education, including love for the fathers of the land, patriotism. Nobody cares about or knows history; nobody reads anything anymore. Love itself was perverted by a transactional type of relationship, the summit of vulgarity and lack of soul sensibility. Not to mention the international horror show we have been witnessing for years now.

There are ways to build back society, but who is interested? No one! I ask kindly and politely here if anyone is interested; I already asked this question in the past. Well… nobody responded, so I guess everybody is okay with everything.

So, good luck!

The gem is usually hidden in the impromptu, like a present in a box. Don’t plan. And actually, some people use dice to make decisions. I’ve just remembered: I took one of my biggest decisions by throwing the dice.

One should trust that whatever happens is what should happen, then stop stressing as if life were already finished and you came back to fix it better. Whatever happens is just there, so maybe one has the opportunity to do their best. Life is a reality to be lived, not to be corrected, and nothing better can happen than life itself.

Let every morning be a new morning; let every day be a new day; let tomorrow be for tomorrow; live today.

Do you remember when you were young and you woke up in paradise in the country home of your grandparents? The freshness of the morning, the warmth of the sun, the smell of a new day: a new excuse to be happy before you learn what “anxiety” means.

Get lost a little. Go without knowing where you will turn next. Go by your instinct, or just go in any way; either is the right path. Then every turn will be something new. Every turn will be an occasion for the universe to reveal its secrets, and you will collect the gems, like stones on the hero’s path.

Don’t let the way to tell you who you are but tell the way who are you.

There is no wrong turn, for in every turn there is a lesson to learn. Embrace not knowing, embrace not planning, embrace choosing deliberately on the way. Look for uncertainty.

The way of the Holy Spirit is unknown to man. Faith in the way is the way, for thinking one knows the way is foolishness and self-delusion.

And one asked Christ: “But what will we eat?” Then He said:

“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink... But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be provided for you.”

“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.”—Oscar Wilde

Oscar was a poet. He could not accept the mediocrity of imitation, but he overstated his critique. You cannot step twice in the same river. The green color is not the same for you and for me. A car wheel might be boring as fuck, but trying to build a better one will land you in an accident. Conformity is not the problem, but the sin of conformity, a blasphemy against your individuality, a failed life, a failed grain that will never bring forth to the sun the colors hidden inside. Stupidity runs in the masses in different forms, but one of the most hilarious is the stupid mind who thinks it can buy respectability with borrowed thoughts or habits and luxury appearances. The inauthentic life is an appalling view for those who know we were born from the blood of the heroes and our call is to be heroes too.

When does one pass the threshold between wannabe writer and writer per se? Is CNN or CNBC journalism? Is an AI a writer? Is an artisan a writer? A writer is an artist who always writes with his own blood, which is always new as the river you might walk in is never the same, otherwise he is just a copyist, a human xerox. Then, don't tell me a writer has to have a public or money; I will remind you of Kafka, who wanted on his deathbed to throw all his writings to the trash. Sure, one can pretend to be a writer and even have some success, but a true writer will not give a frozen damn about popularity or money or status or recognition, because if this is your motivation, the muses will never grant you a pass to see the gods so you have something real to write. You will never be a writer if you want to be a writer, at best a good imitation that will never pass the test of time.