Viciousness in depraved charity
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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.