Tes soupirs de bête lasse, humanité

How can we stand this?

How numbing, debilitating is comfort, how drug-like power must feel for us to know and simply leave things as they are? Agreeing to flirt with this human paradox: feeling safe, comfortable, empowered as consumers in a world where so many of our kind have to fight to make it through another day, on  a daily basis, get new reasons to be traumatized, die unpeacefully after a short, hard, unworthy life?

How scared must we be?

How scared must I be

to put up with this shit.

The putrid, crippling, nauseating smell of consensus - I mean: where are the massive revolutions this situation is undoubtly calling for?

Awareness hurts.

It's only human to try and escape it.

I need a drink, your stongest, greenest old-school absinth.

I need a syringe filled with a medicine that'll get my brain to rot with sublime, otherwordly dreams

I need coma.

We, afraid of hurting and fighting

And risking death

For a cause we think is lost

That doesn't concern us as individuals but strike a chord in each one as mankind

- trading a meaningful death - which could turned out as absurd as anything else

for a tranquil life devoid of purposes - as long as we find ways not to acknowldege the latter (too often)

Consumption is all we could come up with to shake it off lately

That embarrassing humanity of ours that hurts so fucking much

But it's a failure of course, the pain - we bear it, sometimes it's silent sometimes it's gnawing at our insides - get to us all at one point, insidiously

Like this era, like this life,

How we now get what we want from others like us, how we damaged them, us, the un-poor kind

Insidiously.

And my generation, born defeated, cynism its higher value.

And me, writing, not even letting myself wanting, hoping for a better world

Just yearning for a few shreds of the most-wished precious

undignant forgetfulness

Des miettes, juste quelques miettes