Submission

The other day, checking out the submission guidelines, I stumbled upon:

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say. 

Anais Nin. Okay. Why then they didn’t include:

We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are… 

You know why? Because they are unable. 

Do they know what fucks ours and our neighbor’s chickens and is not a rooster? 

Does anyone? But they don’t expect you. To Know. They want to sit behind the bench board, the godsend smooth operators, and enjoy watching the thousands of us falling onto the ground to fertilize it for that one fated acorn that is to make it. Inseminating and growing tall. Until one cuts ’em sturdy oaks down for furniture.

No wonder the most of the participants are bored shitless, watching the history repeat. Go to any rehab, whether you wait for your true love to get checked in, or it’s just you and your twisted self. Sit around that table on the patio and have a cigarette with the patients. Nine out of ten will tell you they became addicts because they were bored shitless.

Now, it’s not what you think. I thought the same thing. It’s not because they’re lazy. They are simply bored being a fertilizer for the chosen ones. They are bored being vassals, sick of mental slavery, second best. They want to be first. Can they all?

So, that fucks the chickens…

One should teach at schools that very few get to be first. Not just because they’re better. Being better is determined by various issues. Even a dash crazier person can make it due to an exceptional set of circumstances. What about the beginner’s luck? Who cares! Once they win, they take it all. Until they fall, kurcu za uši, and the whole cycle begins a new.

We were taught we were all equal. And then one pulled our school down.

Then you take a blue train around the world and find out that we’re not. All equal. Only when we love one another, but they managed to mess that up too. The smooth operators. They hacked the system, and now they just sit there having cocktails and laughing with those ducky voices like witches. Is that what we’re unable to say? That there’s a little movement sporting silky gloves with heraldic symbols and pushing our buttons? How is one to accommodate seven billion people anyway? One cannot provide them with seven billion steaks and bottles of wines. It’s been always cheaper to give away bread and circuses. Panem et circenses. So much blood shed in all those revolutions. The efforts were to no avail. Temporarily it worked, as long as it was needed for re-inaugurations to take place. And then a mindless self-gratification resumes. It was only interrupted with high hopes. That turned into not enough rope.

They teach you the time will come when our consciousness will be so high that we won’t need money nor police to protect it. We’ll enter a supermarket and just take what we need. But it also means no more supermarkets. No malls. Nowhere to hang out. Where to place our youth? How are we to feed them if there is no more high corn fructose syrup foods? How are we to control the masses? And what is the cheapest way? Religion doesn’t work. It has an expiration date. They say Jesus will return, and then one has a thousand years of peace with nothing but flowers growing out of their ears. And after that? How about a little Ice Age?

Here I am sitting wondering why I even bother. My neck hurts. No one is going to publish this. But they want something one is unable to say. To cover their asses. With a dramedy: an old immigrant song. Here you go. I’ll say it for you. You are fucked up. And you know it. But it works. It pays the bills. It’s hilarious. Back home it would be below the belt. Here, as long as it turns the windmills of your mind, it works. You got no dignity whatsoever. You don’t even know what it means exactly. Dignity. A proper self-respect. I know you try to focus on looking after your self. The only tricky part here is proper. It has lost its meaning. Proper speaking, proper behavior, a proper meal…it’s overrated. Or underrated… The truth. It’s supposed to set you free. But it doesn’t. You’re still the part of Part and Parcel. Only as the hell freezes over, the ultimate truth will reign again. A long, long time after it gets tired of loneliness and begins melting away… And then the paradox of the plankton starts all over again. It takes a while to discover a wheel and fire. It needs a bit longer to come up with the wheels on fire. After that it goes fast…

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