Bewildered Sweethearts

There is one situation among a significant portion of people that is something special and to which due attention has not been paid.

And that is that the state of misery and unhappiness in itself gives them additional content, despite declarative commitments au contraire, at least in their heads. This condition is most often expressed through the tendency to start or if they are already in a relationship or marriage that can be characterized as a generator of unhappiness and fear. Add to this a job, an educational institution or any kind of position and the complete picture appears on the surface.

Why, oh, why all that bewilderment...

Because a possible happy and harmonious relationship/marriage would eliminate the "value" of most of the social content they deal with. Of most of the perception of themselves. Of Fiat currency backup. Probably everyday communication with friends, comrades, friends and acquaintances, real and virtual, real and virtual parents and relatives is such that happiness never comes to the agenda. And besides, happiness irritates the aforementioned people. Much more than a bleeding hemorrhoid.

No, happiness in any combination does not bring adequate feedback. The need for comfort? It's a winner. Although it is never called comfort, do not deceive yourself by naming things as they are. That is a one-way path to isolation. Pulling the chain on those oh so powerful emotions? Chasing the rainbow round the corner?

There are certainly small differences between the male and female versions of this strange situation, but the differences are not that great. We talk at length and extensively about how the partner does not seem like him, this or that, garbage and goods, but lo and behold. There is light at the end of the tunnel, a collective council of unhappy paradise is gathered, friends feel "needed" and "useful". Comforting, giving instructions... and after the sixth beer or the seventh vodka, one comes to the legendary words "Well, he's not such a jerk. He's actually not bad. He has a heart of gold, you know. He loves me".

The number of relationships that have ended up executed by the "good intentions" of friends, girlfriends, parents, relatives and other characters is incredible. The benefit is mutual of course, a reverse engineered mutualistic concept without a parachute, the service is returned with a service when the misery changes the face, but not the content. But those "advised" are in no way victims. The good old compliance.

But it's not just that. There is also the whole picture of themselves, beyond the perception of the closest environment with which they interact on a daily basis, the alter-ego, the Ponzi scheme. Being different you know. Original. Something else. Dancing counter-clockwise on a clockwise path. The question is how different someone is if the results are always the same as those of 999 out of 1000 people. Vast, overwhelming majority of people don`t want to be happy. It takes all their projected values ​​down the drain. So the only way to make a lasting relationship is to act in a way that makes them miserable.

If you are up to it and enjoy that.

If you are not...

Ask your self how fast can you run.

(Roger Mortis 022)

A Subjective look at the beautiful side of reality

I can't find words convincing enough to capture the extent to which I am against today's policy of putting street dogs to sleep or locking them up in cheap euphemisms for concentration camps - infirmaries.

The same goes for giving those creatures into the hands of various spoiled people to adopt them and thereby kill their essence and cut off at the root the aesthetics that are born in every swollen belly of a newly mated bitch! The feeling of having a pack of a dozen mangy, toothless and rotten dogs hanging around me makes me happy. Maybe I share this feeling with someone else, and maybe not. I haven't asked about it, and I don't give a damn. The fact remains that they make me happy. Just as the wizard Merlin was happy in the presence of unicorns.

Okay, I'm not exactly Merlin.

Zombified dogs in all their shapes, forms and smells are far from Unicorns. And our fucking cities are not mirrors of Avalon, a place in this world, but not of it. Except maybe Resen, which occasionally smells of apples.

But that doesn't mean there's no beauty in the whole situation. Of course, the word perception will appear in this text because of the subjective experience of beauty. Which doesn't always have to be smooth, fine and organized. Unlike here, on an island where piles of perceptions exported across the Channel originate (no, it's not Japan, for fucks sake), folk proverbs have meaning. Like the one - The beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Why, oh damned subjects of television lobotomy, are you trying to kill the dystopian idyll of our cities with the help of blinders in the form of hypocrisy and a crippled essence of morality!? If an animal rights activist tells you that he respects diversity, do him a favor and don't take him seriously. Because he wants this city to be different like... Zurich!?

Can this city be like Zurich?

And that by building a roof before the foundations, as always.

Neither Skopje would be Skopje, nor Bitola - Bitola, nor Veles - Veles without their beautiful four-legged symbols of dystopia and harbingers of a non-existent future that has the sheen of an ulcer on the skin of a half-decayed dog. And I'm not just talking about dogs, I'm not forgetting the other animals, the cats that drag a rib found in a container that was gnawed by a man for lunch and dinner and, by God, for breakfast, the rats, the eternal Condottieri of the transition processes, from here to Kinshasa, the jackdaws like morning trolls, the sparrows that hang around in parks, the cockroaches as a sign that the end is knocking at the door...

They are all just travelers from the future in our time, reminders of the errors in the foundations of the system. Maybe that's why there is so much hatred towards them. Who knows . They hate almost everyone, from those who would shoot them in the streets to those who keep cats on the seventh floor and love them so much that they break their eggs to turn them into moving toys. Ah...love...in a time of general decay and decay, you can be loved and adored even without your testicles.

Second best option?

Inter-dystopian cooperation and mutual assistance!

Charter flights with North Korean students who would come to us with the aim of getting to know the strange local culture and frivolous lifestyles. They could also watch a video by Slaven Žižek, since the authorities there are hostile to the Web. And since exchange is exchange - perhaps the most useful thing would be for mom and dad's sons and daughters to head in the opposite direction, to broaden their horizons and get acquainted with a bizarre culture, different in all aspects of existence and to try to progressively influence their colleagues on the other side of reality.

Why the hell not?

(Roger Mortis 021)

High Frequency Tango

The energy a.k.a. frequency that is the basis of the material and immaterial world..may never be explained so that we can perceive it in a quantitative-materialistic measurable way. Naturally, the Western-centric way of decoding information requires exact values ​​in order to function, but it is a model like all others, with its own great limitations, starting from the inability to accept the subjective image that depends on the observer as much as on the observed.

Now we have reached the Higgs boson as the basis of the fluctuation in the nucleus, but even that is not even remotely final, there are already models that divide that particle into constituent elements, which in turn opens up space for a model where the constituent elements are divided, and those that are divided are divided... we have a situation that resembles a dog that wants to bite its tail and spins in a circle without catching it, there is no end...

Because the one is contained in all and is projected into all, as all are contained in the one.

Some incomprehensible paradigm is needed, something completely new in order to be able to "grasp" the nature of that force in its very essence, and which will probably never happen.

There is no measurable and quantitative way to capture that.

Not at least with the decoder of reality that we have at our disposal. Known as the brain. Also known for the fact that many people use it as a decoration.

So at the end of the story, no matter how one turns, we gotta take a leap of faith.

Which is not so bad, at least not according to my perception of reality.

Especially if you know what form of materialization that energy/frequency sometimes takes.

Of course, far from any religions and ready-made models of beliefs and rituals...you know what they say. God save us from religion. Religion is the main force with which the elite throughout known history has distanced man from the possibility of conscious co-creation of reality by forcibly imposing a dogma that requires belief in an external force, an external terrible authority that punishes, all by sowing fear and lack of trust, faith, self-belief and doubt in the possibilities that are truly enormous.

Intellectually, many are aware of this. But in the heart it is difficult to find the path that allows co-creation of one's own reality in accordance with the dualistic nature of the universe. They made is believe in imposed limitations, so we experience those limitations.

A lucky few have overcome that and reached a reality of existence unimaginable to us.

(Roger Mortis 020)

Independence

Dependence and independence. From the system. As it is, not as the authorities declare it to be. Everything you have to do and do so that the system grants you the privilege (not the right) of life.

Biological life. The other qualities that it consists of, well...you have to pay for that privilege to be happy. Or at least for the illusion.

A quote from "Trainspotting" and the point is self-evident :

Choose life.

Choose a job.

Choose a career.

Choose a family.

Choose a fucking big television.

Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin can openers.

Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.

Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments.

Choose a starter home.

Choose your friends.

Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.

Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.

Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.

Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.

Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose “life”...

But why would I want to do a thing like that?

I chose not to choose “life” : I chose something else. And the reasons? The reasons? Come on...

Life consists primarily of time. It can be defined through time both qualitatively and quantitatively. Without any deep philosophies, at least for a start. Time is a fundamental category in both the quality and fulfillment of an individual’s life. A person gets too little or nothing for the huge stake he places in the hands of the gambler called the System, and through his brokers and local gamblers - politicians, bureaucrats, parasites, employers...if he does not belong to the above categories, and even if he does belong to the lower echelons of that pyramid - he will receive an anal application of a Kwa-Zulu sized Penis.

One invests his life and what one`s get in return? He gets - feces!

No one asked me if I wanted to be part of this whole hypocritical, criminal, bloody system in which I am condemned in advance to pay derivatives for everything. Literally everything.

Well, no more.

Ya Basta, agueros de culo!

Freedom may be just the ability to dispose of the time that life consists of, in the largest and most comprehensive measure possible. If you want, you can also measure it, establish some kind of unit-measurement for freedom that would read "How much of a given period of time an individual spends on things that he does of his own choice, of his own will and for his own pleasure".

Probably with the intensity of the use of expressions like "I have to", one would sense to what extent a person is free and how much. I have to do this, I have to do that, I have to get up at such and such an hour, I have to go to bed at such and such an hour, I have to go to work, I have to fill out documents, hang around counters, stroke someone's ego, I have to put up with this, that, that...because this and that and that and everything and nothing depend on me, I have to, I have to, I have to...and so on every single day, from cradle to grave.

We are not talking about voluntary, chosen interaction and cooperation with people. But about imposed and forced, the kind that takes up time and nerves and resources...and permission is obtained so that the individual can be - abused...or if you don't mind the outdated expression...A slave! If this were applied to today's living, the results would be devastating. How much of our life do we have for ourselves and how much for the system?

Having sufficient resources that put the individual out of the eternal race for "survival", from all the conditioning and blackmail with which the system is used... is certainly a condition that must be met. Of course, 100% independence is hardly possible, but a gradual reduction in dependence is not only possible but within reach. For everyone. If there is anything good in this 2024 Anno Domini, it is some technical possibilities that have never been so accessible. You would be surprised to know how little is needed for an independent life from social and psychological pressure.

For energetic, social, political, emotional, spiritual and intellectual independence. It only takes a ridiculous fraction of the time it takes to serve the system. And the stake at bet isn`t your soul or life or sanity.

It`s fun actually. Imagine that. If you dare!

(Roger Mortis 019)

Love is a Derivative

Often, the biological paradigm derived from "The Origin of Species" and further research that supplemented the basic assumptions is used to explain intersex relations, but not lobotomy. That`s a very different topic.

Although this is true for the animal world, it is not exactly true for the human world. Not because of the unfoundedness of the assumption but because of its complete projection of the animal-human relationship.

The problem is in the results. It is said that everyone hides a savage, an animal, a Neanderthal. Unfortunately, there is no Neanderthal hidden inside, but a citizen, savages have been dead for 30,000 years and only here and there are signs that they survived. And a citizen is needed who is submissive and obedient. And that is how he is. Whether that citizen has a dick or a pussy, the elite that controls our perception of ourselves and reality does not care... the difference is in the nuances.

The matrix has been hacked, so that a program has been imposed on men and women. It would be disastrous for the system if men and women discovered that the most beautiful, most useful and most valuable things in this world are free and available to everyone.

And what can they achieve together, complementing each other in the nature and spirit of complementarity on a dualistic basis. That is why we are moving towards downloading a program (the Holy Trinity - media, education, environment) that will ensure that men and women do not achieve what they are capable of together. Emotional mutilation, conditioning from diapers, imposing behavioral models, artificially induced needs and ideas... you name it they are doin` it.

And as we see in reality, 95% of relationships are a struggle for supremacy. Men, being physically stronger, use their trump card. Women fuck in the brain, which is their trump card, and all in the name of various strategies in the eternal war called - the struggle for supremacy. Physical, intellectual or psychological, they are all like some elevations on a hill of great tactical value that the Ego attacks. But unlike military operations, here both sides lose, and the system that parasitizes on human misfortune, misery and dissatisfaction wins.

Why else would you think of selling 108 cm TV`s, a car without a roof or a random little thing with the purchase of which finally, but finally - the endorphin will start flowing through the blood vessels. From the porn industry to all the useless objects that make up the bulk of the economy, although work is running away all the way to Babylon. And in the end, someone sees a man, a strong fucker in Herr Josef Fritzl, Uncle Adolf Hitler or Richard Ramirez, and in the immediate vicinity, for example, there is someone with whom she could have a nice life or relationship. Of course, that is the ultimate limit, the average person sees Twilight.

And he? He sits at home and gets turned on by Angelina Jolie, Jenna Jamison or Megan Fox and is bothered that he is not rich, handsome or powerful enough to fuck someone with such technical-tactical characteristics. It is not so much about the fucking as it is about the applause. And about the fact that everyone imagines that something far better than they are belongs to them. That fate has destined someone like that for them. The universe has made a plan just for them.

Derivatives...gotta appreciate them.

The circle is closed, both "he" and "she" are miserable, the caravan is moving, the system is profiting, teeth are gnashing.

(Roger Mortis 018)

Un homme et une femme

Jean looked impatiently at the river every day. He hoped that at that very moment she would arrive. His one and only. He knew every detail of the shore, every shadow in the harbor, the reflection of the sun on the water was engraved in his brain, every voice about the arrival of a ship was his friend.  And everyone knew him, crazy Jean, the one whose mind had been consumed by hope, the target of ridicule for sailors who emptied themselves into local prostitutes and irritation for eternal cynics.

Every day he hung on the harbor like an inventory to anchor hope, he had no information about her or his children, uncertainty every day tore off a piece of the illusion that happiness had not abandoned him after all and that maybe after all, there was some chance of meeting again, meeting with his Isabel. He was often a target of competent and incompetent advisors, invited and uninvited guests of his conscience who parroted him to forget her, to have pity on the children and to marry again. All those years they convinced everyone that they were right. Except him.

On the other side of the Amazon was Isabel. Four thousand and eight hundred kilometers away from Jean, the former beauty through whose veins flowed the blood of the conquistadors but also that of the Quechua Indians, a mixture that does not tolerate failure, educated and aware of the world around her. And she was waiting for Jean, whom she married too young, seemingly inexperienced. By her own will and to the immense joy of Jean, the twenty-something old cartographer who had come from France to measure the circumference of the equator and give it a final dimension to our planet, in the Le Condamine expedition.

And she expected news every day, and her sadness gave her a heavy expression in her eyes, she knew every detail of the coast, every shadow in the harbor, the reflection of the sun on the water was engraved in her brain, every voice about the arrival of a ship, and she was a friend. She spent eight years with him before he decided to leave for France. After the death of their daughter from the usual tropical diseases, they still decided to go. But now he refused to take her with him. He knew the risks of the expedition, he convinced her to stay and watch the children, they wouldn't be gone for more than a few months anyway.

If only he had known how much those few months would cost.

And he was right, almost half of the expedition was left to rot in the Amazon swamps, a tribute to discovering and charting new routes. The forgotten heroes of a forgotten war.

Still, he reached his destination on the Atlantic coast, with rough maps that he had compiled himself. Now he just had to send a message to her to come. And he did. The letter never arrived, lost in the curse of human madness and the sadistic games of chance. Spain and Portugal closed the area to the French, on the way to another war to gnaw at South America.

The road was closed. There was no forward, no back. As if the whole of Amazonia was not enough, now it was also divided by local maniacs thirsty for blood and gold. The future did not keep up with the present. At least not for Jean and Isabel.

A detour was needed. Jean set out through a bureaucratic labyrinth that was as nasty as the Amazonian one. He wrote, begged, sought passage through the Spanish-Portuguese territories. He tried to overcome obstacles, cynicism, misunderstanding, open hostility. Months turned into years. Jean decided that enough was enough and that it was time to take his fate into his own hands. He was helped by La Condamine, his mentor who managed to use some of his personal connections with local Portuguese powerful people. One thing did not leave Jean in peace...he knew that the Portuguese were aware of his attitude towards them, of the correspondence in which he accused them of their massacres of the natives. His suspicion slowly grew into paranoia. Had they forgotten?

Although both La Condamine and the local governor assured him that everything was in order...they even provided him with a ship to reach Riobamba, to Isabel. After so many years of troubles and apathy, he saw a trap even where fate had not intended to set it for him. He boarded the ship and set off. Every whisper of the sailors seemed to him like a conspiracy and an intention to throw him to the piranhas. One evening he got off the ship in Oyapoc, a small town forgotten by everyone, even by the crazy gods of the Quechua Indians. The ship continued and without him reached some destination that was not Riobamba, by the captain's will. And Isabelle heard rumors of a ship carrying him, several hundred kilometers away. Those rumors were enough to convince her to set off through the jungle, even though she had no knowledge of the dangers and despite warnings that she was going to certain death. Those who persuaded her were persistent and convinced everyone.

Except for her.

The small amateur expedition she had hastily assembled and financed was doomed to failure. No one survived the journey; they all ended up as the local cynics had predicted, playing the role of ominous birds in the eternal fear of being killed. Malaria and the swamp took their toll. The end of a love's journey.

Except for Isabelle.

Alone, half-crazy with fear, eaten by insects and despair, she continued. Like her ancestors who went to find El Dorado and left their bones in some remote pit, dreaming of the city of gold, she too went. With the vague instinct inherited from her other side, the Indian, she sought her El Dorado. And he was a certain Jean Gaudin, a man of flesh and blood whom she was not even sure was alive.

On 22nd of July 1770, she saw a settlement. With a last effort of will, she dragged herself to the first houses of...Oyapoc! The same place where Jean had reached.

They were finally together!

There are many things that cannot be explained rationally. This is one of those cases. Two spirits impenetrable under the fierce blows of fate. An insignificant episode in the history of South America, a mere footnote compared to the supposed great games and events.

Or something else entirely.

(Roger Mortis 017)

The Circle

The expression on her face was unusual. A kind of satisfying smile under her eyes that avoided other people's gazes. She was about forty-five years old. She left a vague impression that she had once been an attractive girl who had probably been the target of lustful glances, someone's loving eyes, or at least an erect penis.

What now attracted attention to her, besides her drunk and too slim of a body, grotesque makeup, and uncertainty in appearance, was her baby, from whom no one had ever seen her part from. Everywhere she went, she went with her little one. Well swaddled and in a safe maternal embrace. Protected from everything she considered a threat to the little one...like many mothers, she had that expression that is incomprehensible to men. No one knew who the baby's father was, whether it was a soldier on leave, the love of her life, or the local bored Council house fucker. It was strange that she was not the target of gossip, except for the newcomers to the city who were seeing her for the first time...

The mystery was revealed one ordinary rainy day on the steps in front of the local hospital. For reasons forever buried in her mind, she often hung around the city hospital.

No, there were no dramas or confrontations with the baby's possible father. No fateful encounters, at least not the kind that novels are written about, are retold as the latest gossip or end up on the pages of the black chronicle.

Just a small slip on the slippery stairs. And a shock. Shock when she slipped and fell down the stairs. For the first time in who knows how long, the baby, under the influence of inexorable gravity, left her arms and rolled down the stairs. It remained lying down on them, between the expression in the mother's eyes, some essence of horror, stopped time in her eyes and the shock of those who witnessed the incident. The baby remained lying. At first she didn't move. Despite the fall that engulfed all the stairs one by one. The baby didn't make a sound. And how could it have made a sound when it was made of - plastic!

It wasn't any baby, but an ordinary doll, a little old-fashioned and worn out. Plastic is not prone to injuries.

Collateral damage to the invisible whims of fate, drug addict`s stories from another time, an insidious game of chance, a karmic incident with no return ticket, like all of us, although all in our own way, carrying our cross as long as we have some illusion in front of us. Even if we have some kind of plastic doll in our hands, we also have something that makes us not stop. Not to break the circle.

An insignificant scene from an insignificant street in a small, gray town on the border with the promised land. A sad inspiration in the brain of an hydraulic press worker during a cigarette break.

(Roger Mortis 016)