Is Patriotism a Mental Illness?

The broad definition states the following: any disorder of brain function that affects thought processes, emotions, or the ability to interact mutually and beneficially with the environment and surroundings is a patrio...oops...mental illness.

Patriotism itself and its stupid brother, nationalism, are based on "love" for some imaginary entity called "the state" or "the people" in the most common sense of the use of these terms. It also implies some positive difference to all other entities that are named as nations and states.

Emotions directed at imaginary entities is nothing new, religion is the best indicator of how far it can escalate.              

But patriotism as a relatively new phenomenon with it`s climax in mid 20th Century. If in religion at least "love" was given to some omnipotent entity called God, from whom a reward with eternal life was expected, in the case of patriotism we have an emotionally one-sided attitude towards some features on a geographical map and some name that indicates that territory. Of course, behind that concept are hidden quite specific mechanisms for the robbery of the population of a certain territory and exploitation, joined by robing blind the resources of that place on the earth. The genius lies in the brainwashing that asks the victims to love their perpetrator, because it sells them a story of uniqueness, belonging to a greater whole, and the deep fears that every average lobotomized member of a nation tries to avoid during his earthly life.

In other words, patriotism thrives on the fertile soil of the individual's cowardice and mental inertia. Just like many other mental disorders.

This mental illness exploded on a world scene with the rebranding of states into nations in the 18th century. Mostly thanks to the by-product of the French Revolution, that pure evil dictator known as Napoleon Bonaparte.

No patriot or nationalist can explain what is good in the mentioned entities. What is it that leads to an emotional engagement from him to the imagined social construct. Is, for example, masturbation on the Macedonian edition of Playboy an expression of patriotism? Or is it still just masturbation? If it is the former, then patriotism and masturbation are equivalent.

By its action, patriotism prevents the development of a person by eternally insisting on not asking questions (there was a J.F. Kennedy statement in that direction) and conditioning the individual. In the territory known as North Macedonia and the year 2024, this disease is increasingly present. And threatens to kill any independent opinion and prevent any tipping point in the direction of individual and collective values ​​contrary to patriotism. And even worse, in many cases man is conditioned between biological survival and his own attitude. Guess what has the priority.

But patriotism is a disease of pandemic proportions.

An empty personal life and the lack of a clearly defined idea of ​​one's own worth is replaced by ready-made belief models that are derivatives, thus opening the way for a mass epidemic of patriotism, against which the plague pandemic in the 14th century known as the Black Death is only pleasant a spring breeze caressing your hair on a beautiful sunny May afternoon. Only in the 20th century, patriotism and nationalism, according to the most conservative estimates, are responsible for the death of 455 million people in several hundred wars fought on all continents.

Except for Antarctica.

Fortunately, there is almost nothing in Antarctica.

Bacteria and viruses don't grow much there, and neither does patriotism...

What should be done? How we escape the pulling power of this evil? Well, step one, kill the patriot within you!

After that, continue into the neighborhood. Be proactive. Talk to people. Write a Blog. Do anything for the love of all that`s holly.

Long Live the Revolution (Roger Mortis 006)

Victory

He looked at the aperture incessantly. He remembered when he first flew many years ago and wondered how the view did not stop fascinating him after so much time. The world looked quite peaceful and calm as always.

He was wondering. Where from all those memories, unannounced arrived, beginning to turn through his head. Landed friendships, semi-made and unfulfilled love stories, plans that have received an unexpected direction. Much more important things had to be thought off. Direction of life, his life.

Questions. Why didn't he ask for a phone number of  that black-haired, tall, cutely tired girl that he saw  that night at the airport bar, just before receiving the unexpected command. The command they have been training for years hoping they won't ever hear it, memorized for a long time in a separate part of the brain.

Wasn't an exercise. Operational task, flight with use in anger.

No one got a chance except her. Others, her competitors, blue and black, and perhaps even red-haired were difficult to relocate with him, half a year on Okinawa, half a year in Arizona, a year in Korea, two off Diego Suarez. But she always sought it wherever she went.

He was always fulfilled, cheerful, although a bit rigid, obedient and not overloaded with naive questions. He was not particularly perceptive to realize that his thoughts were just phrases with whom they had fed him him through the military training school.

For the first time he was overwhelmed by a strange feeling in that tenderness at nine thousand meters above the North Pacific, alone with a few colleagues in the once magnificent Boeing B-52 Stratofortress, a large and powerful two hundred tonnes machine that he knew more intimate than several girls with whom he had serious relationships. Better than with parents, his father a military pilot in action sometime over some insignificant point on the planet, dragging the Dragon of Air America, white and green, and his mother, who held out somehow without the good will to raise their son, except for a few stories spun now and then. His father's alleged heroic feats, told in the break between watching movies and dinner.

Her son was a battle she lost without much fight. Unlike her husband who pulled out a white flag for several months after the birth of the future rider of the Apocalypse.

They learned and trained for her. Although big and heavy, she radiated some energy that required a lot of potassium and iodine for her lovers. They only used her in some obscure places like Maralinga, Montebello, Bikini Atol or Tanesruf Belt. She was the real one. She. The Bomb. Ultimate symbol of destruction. Orgasm of 1,1 megatonnes of raw power. B-28M was her real name. Molly for the ones that new her. The crew of the bomber also called her "sweety", probably to cover up the fear of flying with her, knowing her inclinations.

The enemy. There was no opportunity to retaliate, the standards for Mutual Assured Destruction did not apply this time. At least intelligence reports suggested. On several occasions, the thoughts like "It wasn't our fault, they started it", "We could do nothing but defend ourselves"

Intelligence, plans and operations had a common cut.

They were 100% secure only in politicians' accounts.

This time there was no going back.

Next was the goal.

Molly, the sweet little Molly, was unloaded as planned.

The fuel was at an end, the last drops were helplessly extracted from the tanks.

Calls to supplement fuel in the air faced dead silence, flying tankers that were supposed to appear did not appear and did not respond to calls. There was nowhere to land. Down was hell, upstairs was the fuel gauge. Scenes went unstoppable in his mind, all the way to the bottom.

They missed the possibility of forcing water landing some time ago, confident in the existence of it's base. It was clear to them what had happened, but they had no time for a storm of emotions, anger, sadness. Maybe just a shock. The pilot has been in a daze for some time, humming a perticular song.

As i was walking,

That ribbon of highway,

I saw above me

That endless skyway,

I saw Below Me

That Golden Valley.

This land was made for you and me.

Strangely, the aircraft's autopilot was not activated. Unlike the autopilot in the head of our protagonist, which in the last minutes before the stratospheric beast was attracted by gravity downwards, still tirelessly worked. He was not sorry for anything, neither for himself or the ashes that they left somewhere there, not for friend or foe.

He was pleased that they finally showed them.

Long Live the Revolution! Roger Mortis 005