When all is said and done, what is left to write?
My inner voice has been absent for some time. It manifests itself in brief, uncontrolled electrical impulses, those random and fleeting thoughts, like severed wire – externally silent but lethal. I have a long fuse, but the bomb is fucking nuclear. Perhaps that is why I am writing this – to gain a better understanding of myself and to learn to use writing as both a weapon and a remedy.
What bothers me are the empty people I deal with every day. I guess I am the moron for working a job that requires me to be social and upbeat – but I am good at wearing masks. I frequently wonder if there are other people like me – people who can see the matrix of endless bullshit that is so pervasive in our blatantly corrupt and upside-down society. What bothers me is the more apathy I see, the more I want to give up.
What really fucking flips my flapjack is that nearly everyone I encounter on a daily basis has no capacity to critically think. Literally everything about them has been programmed – by their parents, by school, and by an umbilical-chord-addiction to television. The conversations are pointless and devoid of meaning:
“Did you see that sports game? Did you hear what the president said? Did you see that T.V. show? Have you tried this place to eat? Duuuuuuude. We got so drunk last night.”
Blah, blah, fuckity blah. Let me save you some trouble. I do not give a fuck. I will play along with you to appease social norms but I do not give a fuck about what you are saying unless it represents a point that you have thought about with your brain and is not some rehashed mind-dribble that someone else told you. I am a man of passion and of endless, careful thought. Get on my fucking level and I will open your blinded eyes.