There are people that receive great pleasure in the growth and conservation of their benevolent soul. The soul: a deep luminous entity they keep trapped and nurtured inside their bodies, just beside their movable bowels. What’s wrong with that? Isn’t the principle of charity right after all? Well, a lot of things are wrong with that, principles can go to hell. Charity can’t be a display of fraudulent magnificence, can it? It can’t be an outlet for all the selfishness of a disturbed ego, can it? It couldn’t, but it actually can. In these cases charity is actually this ugly orifice that all the vilest sentiments of self-indulgence have to go through. Wannabe saints that do volunteer work, donations, that wear out they kneecaps in church, they go all around the place suggesting to people they should humbly and discreetly support “here’s some Providence!” It really seems a joke, but there are actually some old witches, not necessarily females, doing that and feeling they are conquering their very corner of heavenly afterlife – I do really hope there isn’t an afterlife, so they can rot like anybody else despite the greatness of their hearts. They’re not the ones researching and caring for the true misery of others, they’re not the ones to question themselves and start anew, they’re not risking anything in this farce. They bring their stale little bags of forged charity around to their very own Miseriland – a Disneyland’s zone where the miserables are in reality an elite of people in partially ragged costumes. Because real misery is too frightening to even think of approaching it. You have to look at the dirt of the world, to touch it, to let your pure fingers sink into it. It’s not pleasant, it takes all the fun of charity away. Hobbies should be fun otherwise it’s better to find others. And after the farce, the final treat: they share the remains of their feast, like the Romans casting dice bets over the tunic of Christ. Then they go back to their sanctified homes, with a premonition of Heaven in their guts. They don’t know how much their addiction to the taste of what they consider to be Heaven is harmful to those they touch, how infectious. They drag the asinine minds of those whom they favor in a bottomless lake of shit, the lake of moral absence.
There’s also another category of altruist, not much better than the other: those pretending misfortunes don’t exist in their own flawless surroundings – in their family for example – and having the absurd claim to go and solve their own problems in others’ lives. At war with their families, treating their spouses, children or elders badly, but dispensing indulgence to anonymous crowds. All they need is mirrors to be blinded by the reflections in them. It’s easy to be understanding with someone they meet just a couple of times, someone whose existence is there only as a chunk of their own reality. It’s easy to feel good after that, to feel they’ve been righting the wrongs all along, that they have a mission to accomplish. What about the wrongdoings in their lives? Do they exist or are they a myth? No, those don’t really count, do they? They’re minor spots in a vast landscape of iniquity. Iniquity’s always others’. Sin, too. They have problematic situations now and then, never evils in their own selves that need absolution. Absolution walks hand in hand with them day by day, is part of them not a need, in light of their dedication and blindness.
Category: Random Thoughts
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Viciousness in depraved charity
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Ambivalence of rest
The best ideas are those that come visit your imagination while you’re half sleeping. Maybe they’re not actually that good, but they make a lot of sense in a mind that’s partly asleep. In such a state you’re given excellent chances to improve your creativity or to complete personal tasks. But is there anybody to really have the strength and dedication to get up and take action? Or at least take a note in order to not forget? I do not. It always happens that all these resources offered by pre-sleep delirium go inevitably to waste. Starting from scratch the day after, or in any case after the rest, isn’t much appealing, especially because, despite the lack of memory, one perfectly knows and regrets the laziness of the moment. But rest is a need of both mind and body, how can one live either fearing inspirational intellectual developments or the refreshment of rest? If you give up in the first case you risk cerebral stasis, in the second you’re very likely sooner or later to get a nervous breakdown. So many self-inflicted traps one can’t avoid… I need some sleep.
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When table football triggers acknowledgment
One day you wake up more pissed than usual – thanks to these fucking table football enthusiasts that seem to not have anything better in life than devote themselves to red or blue plastic goalies – and it happens you realize your brain is sort of frozen. It’s not the lack of sleep or the thirst for revenge that is freezing your cerebral faculties. You ‘re not even sick or anything, it’s just that your grey matter is stuck in a vacuum. Focusing doesn’t work either. Focusing on nothing cannot work in normal state, not even when you had a shitty morning desperately trying to get some sleep. Then you sort of get the feeling it’s not a temporary state, it’s habit. All you can do is think of trivialities and get obsessed over nothing. I honestly don’t remember to have been spending some quality time thinking about anything truly significant in the last period. It’s not that I didn’t know it, it’s just that I didn’t stop to panic about it. Of course the process is not totally intentional, of course I tried to do some relatively significant thinking, but I couldn’t concentrate on it for more than fifteen minutes. After a while the brain automatically switches to stand-by mode. I completely forget of having been thinking at all after that, and the vacuum enlarges. Sometimes it’s like not knowing why caring at all about certain aspects that at the moment you take them into consideration seem so vitally important. Some other times it simply feels like it should be for average minds. Thinking must be like a sort of athletic skill after all – why not? – so it requires the necessary training; once you have not trained enough it’s useless to just wish you could be doing anything like a pro. Then you get older and your brain is no better than your legs, you can’t use it properly anymore. Your desire goes in one direction and the physical attributes go in another. You part ways, a day after the other, the process isn’t going to slow down. So maybe it’s just training that one needs after all? Seems very simple if you put it that way. Like anybody can do it when there’s still time.
Anyway, what I was going to say before starting I don’t remember. I wish I could see what was my point at all. I had some kind of idea, vague and not very clear, but still it was something. Now I only know there are the usual frustrating activities in sight and all I can do is to be worried and paranoid about them.
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Something is rotten
One can make conjectures about emulation all one wants, or invent conspiracy theories – wouldn’t it be easier to give full credit to them? – to fill a void in acknowledging the other. But we didn’t know the other. That’s the fact. We did not. Did we? Whatever the diverse reasons behind an individual choice, the impotence of definition is what we have left. In our hands there’s no power of comprehension. The letting go is just a false guess. That is probably not the aspect that’s meant to be sought. That’s just about cleansing our conscience of the sense of guilt for having gotten all wrong, for days, months, maybe years. It’s not our fault, not necessarily. Taking care of oneself and trying to figure that out is a draining occupation already. And to pretend to take care of another or to get to know another before having the faintest idea about one’s own self is the root of all hypocrisies. All the idle talk, the vivid reconstructions – on the basis, of what? -, the glorifying or the condemning, all that is in the flesh of the living, not in the composure of the dead.