Chat Log Part 2: Electric Fuck You.

Maintaining current levels of wealth is impossible given the amount of land.
Currently, our global wealth depends upon finite commodities, most notably metals (precious and semi-precious) and oil. Neither of these things are being produced anymore.

We need arable, mineral and oil rich land, things which are rapidly disappearing.
China has lost something like 1/3 of its arable land in the past 50 years due to massive deforestation and shortsighted farming methods. Many other countries have experienced desertification, and climate change has exacerbated this process.

If Montana or Texas had the population densities of many asian countries, per capita wealth (relative) would decline to levels at or below those of the more densely populated countries. This is also in addition to water quality, pollution, and dietary issues that would occur due to massive overpopulation.

As it stands now, ONE COUNTRY, Japan, has almost successfully overfished the worlds' oceans. This is a consequence of their exceedingly high population on a small landmass. Although per capita impact tends to decline over time in densely populated areas, TOTAL impact still rises. As this happens, further mineral (NON RENEWABLE) use also increases in a TOTAL fashion, while per capita wealth decreases.

The environmental impact of extremely dense populations upon surrounding areas would cause massive ecological deterioration due to edge effects, as well as any increased infrastructure would further break up already fragmented ecosystems. Unfortunately for the planet, these ecosystems play a vital part in the water, nutrient and energy cycles. If land use, globally, reached levels that were similar to those in the most heavily populated areas, per capita wealth would decline dramatically, ecological disasters would become routine, and NO, people would not live very fun or wealthy lives.

In this sense, yeah, we have run out of land. We've run out of land in the sense that AT THE POINT WE ARE ALREADY AT, we no longer have untouched arable land. It is possible to make desert into an oasis, but eventually the water tables will sink to the bedrock, or you will have to desalinate gross quantities of seawater AT TREMENDOUS ENERGETIC COST.

Imagine if the whole world was like Dubai. You can have lots of people, great technology and good quality of life for SOME, but in general it will be energetically costly, if not prohibitive, and the vast majority of people will be living substandard lives. So yeah, we have fucking run out of land.

(but we have land)

If you count desert, permafrost (not so permanent these days) and ecological areas which are necessary for PLANETARY SURVIVAL, then yeah, sure we do.

The world needs green space in order to sustain life. We can only push against the natural order for so long before the cycles fall out of normal and hit us right in the back of the head. Human civilisation shows record after record of this overuse of resources, collapse of society and rebuilding on undamaged land. We are currently a bit short on undamaged land.

If you want to look at the real culprits of global warming, don't look at oil, don't look at plastics or emissions. Look at what happened to the East China Sea, the Gulf of Mexico, the new deserts in Spain, Portugal and China. When new deserts are created we lose massive carbon sinks that are critical in maintaining a balanced biosphere. The loss of those areas is catastrophic, in the loss of potential food sources, livable areas and the ultimate global effects that this decline will have.

Things might seem fine in your backyard, but we are seriously pretty fucked.

Further Reading: http://www.shacknews.com/laryn.x?id=21714139#itemanchor_21714139

Chat Log

The issue is that fiscal and political conservatism has been hugely muddled with moral conservatism. The first two ideas are political views that work well in economically or resource restricted, extremely difficult environments. "Battening down the hatches," so to speak. Through the lack of social sharing, selected enclaves and individuals may persevere and survive difficult periods, so only the fittest survive, not dragged down by the least productive members of society. However, moral conservatism, while stemming from a similar brew of environmental pressures, is actually more closely associated with a mental disease of closemindedness and irrationality.

This sickness is most evident in extreme cases of "othering" groups of people, past points of dehumanization (kill all members of THEM, group X ,that is not US, group Y). This allows easy partitioning of populations, so that warfare and other methods of population control may be morally justified by the perpetrators (as unethical as it may be). This will also pervade into irrationality regarding reproductive practices, most of them to do with attempting to restrict procreation (and sex) to only the most economically stable classes (married, career oriented men in such places as the midwestern US, or extremely wealthy arab shieks). However, the irrationality that is required to allow this moral conservatism to occur within the human brain will eventually pervade it like a virus. In such a case, logical decisions and true ethical considerations are continually overlooked, and a siege mentality will most likely persist throughout the life of the individual without heavy environmental changes that would aid in lessening the effects of the disease.

The irrationality inherent in such people has been the primary reason for the suppression of astronomy, mathematics, science and ethics, as overturning the irrationality would also overturn the individual's world view and thus cause a mental breakdown, something which would be disastrous in any situation. This is especially more true as the individual further moves down such a path, destroying lives and spreading their sickness with every passing year. The ensuing guilt of realisation would most likely crush them.

The rational mindset occurs more often in times more free of stress, as it requires thinking that can be useless and impractical, but ultimately leads to the elimination of irrational thought processes in the human brain as it eventually seeks to fully understand its environment in order to most efficiently operate. This efficient operation is due to a recognised need to store wealth during times of plenty, and every percent increase in efficiency makes the individual that much more competitive with other individuals. However, if misdirected, the cold rationality can become selfish and irrational, which leads to effects such as fiscal conservatism in good times, in order to most benefit individuals through business.

However, throughout human history, extremely harsh environments have lead to strong predispositions (some mental, some genetic) in most humans to perpetrate irrational thinking. The continual cycles of economic success, population explosion, poverty and warfare/destruction only replenish the surplus of irrational people. This is not to mention that only in the past 100 years have we truly been doing much better in terms of economic progress and individual survival rates. So far, our cultures have not managed to catch up to our reality. There is a great deal of lag time, and it can sometimes take many generations for irrational thinking to be weeded out of a populace. That is why conservatives are a huge fucking problem.

Ultimately, the only mindset that will be of any historical or future benefit is one which is directed towards the betterment of the human race. The greatest greek minds, to the founders of democracy in france and the united states. Scientists like the Curies, Einstein, Tesla, and countless others. Every opponent of irrational thinking and gross religious conduct. Any economic accomplishments have long been forgotten and are essentially worthless to the individuals, but their combined contributions have most likely helped save the human race multiple times, and will hopefully enable the survival of our species into the next hundred thousand years, at least, the only real triumph any member of our species can strive for. (Although maintaining the Earth, nature, and our biosphere would also be a fantastic accomplishment as well. Life should be cherished for the amazing collection of chances that it is.)

An unclever rationale

The economy is flaccid and limp, like a deflated birthday balloon. The party has long since been deserted and the mice scramble for the crumbs left by the oily faced children. Squalling brats, more pig than human, the corners of their mouths smeared with dark icing, rolls of fat sliding underneath their torpid skin. Their dark bowl cut hair plastered greasily to their skulls, repugnant to behold.

The swirling abyss threatens to engulf the Writer, a damning eternity is only waiting for the next tiny figure to fall flailing towards it. Outlined by the hellish fusion core, this despair swirls in a multispoked pattern, white on blue, blue on black. There is no blessing of oblivion waiting, but a thousand years of torment, each molecule pulled away from the core in a series of small sections, gravity takes hold of its own and the event horizon seals the figures' fate. Small toenails, fingers, bits of hair, they are all wrenched off with inexorable force, then vital organs, fluids and viscera fly screaming towards the center.

Is there an escape from this doldrum of a climax? Extinguished before it had a chance to flame, like a sputtering match. The intellect is folding in onto itself rapidly, vocabulary declines and creativity pales into monotony. Where is there an escape? There must be a path, a yellow gray gravel path that leads to a fearless land, where a man can stand tall or a woman can revel guiltlessly. The trap was laid, set, and triggered. Is there any choice but to wait for the huntsman's axe? Perhaps to gnaw at your own foot, tearing muscle and tendon, vein and bone. Free, but at a cost? Are we lizards, cephalapods, to whom any damage is but psychic and temporary? Is it permanent and crippling, even carrying over to the next generation like some bastardized Linnean parody of life?

The writer sincerely hopes.

Pat adjective

The aptly named writer slogged through another hangover to wearily slouch over his keyboard. The frontal lobe ached unsympathetically, every neuron felt stretched and battered. The pores felt like a Saudi oil patch, sandy, greasy but dry as an uncomely maiden aunt.

Each aching thought took a toll in a spirit wrenching way, the desire for sleep is unquenchable, no sleep for the writer would come.

Still, in this dazed and semi-expired state, the writer felt every fibre of his being cry out to be something more than it was, a horrible, unfulfilled need and longing, not just to satisfy bodily urges, but a generalised anxiety from a feeling of hopeless mediocrity. The fear of a wasted intellect, a capable mind but one so bereft of creativity that even finding a new hobby becomes a herculean task. A mind that is almost encyclopedic in its knowledge but with too many pages torn out to make sense of anything at all.

The cost of social normalisation was too much for this one, the bodily and emotional urges won, forced a shift in every part of being, but the psychic torment remains. The screeching of a soul betrayed, desolate and inconsolable. Like sand caught in a brake rotor, every action becomes tortorous and uncertain, but ultimately unimportant, as the wheels continue to pound on unheeding.

Where is a boring writer to find solace of the soul? When laziness prevents thoroughness, when intelligence and boredom become so mixed that only a vague mental frame of mind remains. Wasted youth comes to mind, wasted possibilities. Add insult to injury, those responsible find no fault in their actions, society is content to have another cog, instead of having a pure machine that would have added far more value than simply pushing the ticking bomb of civilisation one second forward. Frustrated genius? A claim that is more ephemeral than beauty. There is no substance to it, since genius is lacking. Only a vague cleverness, but one that is more comfortable with rote and convention. A dire curse for one who utterly despises both. A person who holds creativity to the highest degree. Invention, innovation, genius, traits that can only be longed for.

Hard work could bring something like that to the dark heart of the author, but at the cost of all the things that the writer sacrificed his soul for: relationships, acceptance in society, understanding of the human world. The crux of this is that in this crucible of a planet there is little room for one who must be both human and sentient.

With increased humanity, so we sacrifice our sentience. Sentience is cold, cruel and calculating, we dampen it with emotion and caring, but even that holds calculations of its own. All science has a cold beauty, but it only acquires its loveliness from the human perspective. That perspective twists the beauty into a modified untruth, like digitally altering the photo of a beautiful woman. It is not even necessary.

The wandering thoughts stray now...

A few good ideas

Strip it all down to the bare basics and look at what everything is worth.

Science is cold and hard and deterministic but free will lets us change that. It all comes down to costs.

The vile and unspeakable rise up, bilious and bubbling. Just feelings or something sinister?

Out of touch at your lover's side. In sight but out of mind.

Unchecked frustrations, anxiety, serenity comes lately. The epidemic of apathy, well fed well entertained well what's the deal?

The game laid bare is still a stupid game, being able to win doesn't mean you will always want to play.

I always seem to post more after a breakup.

Filler

I want to paint
in broad sweeping strokes
the image that is tormenting me
the perfect feeling
from the land of dream
makes my heart strain
as an animal chained
to touch it; ever ephemeral
where a fleeting fantasy outstrips reality
pale before death's horse
the soft curves and firm and gentle promises
mingle in my seeing-glass pool, in the mind's eye
within reach but out of grasp.

The myriad visions all to no end
but culminating in a want
a heedless unknown want
it rends the flesh of the mind

There is a mad crone sewing
a quilt foretelling the future
fragments of dream pierced and folded
filled with the sweet down of nothing
threaded with the eyes

When all happiness is cast aside
hearts are filled with nothing
but an empty knowledge
that nothing is nothing
and laws draw our lives.

Reality is the cruelest joke of all.

sex

Impotence and sexual frustration outlets into relgiion, incipient ideology, and every form of facism. The afflicted spread their impotence and gain sexual power over others, increasing rates of mental despair and illness in others, furthering the sickness that is their belief system.

Hatred of sex and porn is a sure sign of an individual in denial of their basic biological nature. This hatred can be sourced to every human social ill. Uncertainty and frustration in young males leads to gangs, crime and social withdrawal. In adults in transforms them into screaming, violent chimps, unable to control their own minds or aggressions. The culture of abstinence is sick and bloated. It is turgid and in need of release.

Contagious and problematic, this society disgusts me.

The Conveyance

Vivid imagery assults the mind, a crime worth 20 years without parole. Luridly colourful, when the meaning of lurid ceases properly define the form of grotesqueness. The function becomes vestigial and the meaning is lost to creationists. Run with me, towards a destination of pure potential, where mother chaos will suckle us lovingly. Skip thoughts like stones, never pass long enough to wonder at the depth. Dark things lurk below, frightening and scary until brought up to the surface, whereupon they are seen to be pale, gasping shadows of an idea. The depth lies in the breadth. The mysteries of the land or of the ocean are of little matter to the character development which transpires within and without. Concentrate too long and a hunched figure with poor eyesight and worse skin is left, a shell of a mocking form.

The shotgun effect of writing, where any brilliance is unintentional. The greater the lack of delicacy, then the increased artistry? The mundanity of profanity has made limited the shock and awe of a language. The need to push the envelope has been overshadowed by a schizophrenic desire to kick the fucking desk over, jump into a loincloth and hold a blood sacrifice. There is no longer shock but disgust, the grim leftovers of a college party. Drunken co-eds, spilt beer, empty pizza boxes and piles of vomit lovingly left underneath the family poinsetta. Run on sentences sit alongside piss lines on the backyard fence.

Fried Minds

The blithe crushing of a soul, a grotesquely luminescent heel pushing through the forehead of the thinker. How comfortably couched they are in their rhetoric, control, control, controlling every molecule of air around them, gleeful in the lack of control they reserve for themselves. Corrupt and lice-ridden, they revel in their own filth. They wear their crowns haughtily while they skull-fuck liberty. The laurels on their shoulders and the wreaths around their head hearken famine, pestilence, war and death. Their olive branch is tainted with corruption, only on loan and with compound interest. The virus merges with the cell, grabbing it like a lecher grabs a breast. Then penetrating, over and over again, not for effectiveness, but to ensure that the full realisation of loss and defilement can land with crushing weight. Finally, injecting, thrusting the seed of darkness far into the nucleus where it perverts the very function of the cell. Left with no alternative, the only true path for the cell is self-destruction, a functioning immune system would be a mercy. As the viruses lie dormant, so too do all prophets and leaders, who seek to rip and tear the orifices of every nubile sylph. They tear their leaf garments readily and leave them glassy eyed and bloody, a broken motorcycle accident of a shell.

TO BE BLUNT: The loss of free speech (or did it ever exist?), the pillaging of the world's population, the indoctrination of every schoolchild, the savage thrusts of free market capitalism cheapen 2 dollar whores. The bilge of the earth overgrows into a vast sewer. It is filled with the orphans you have created. Your economic machinations, your religious meddling and indoctrination, your societal rule-making and hypocrisy. The voice of one is lost in the chorus of ignorance, saddest still is that there is not one but many. Miring all together, the tarpit of humanity traps genius and dullard alike. There is a feeling of a suffocating enveloping fog, a smothering presence that leaps off the page and shines through the photos. Each sad shard of humanity shown to be just as worthless and decrepit as the next, the mindless system run by mindless peons. The peons controlled by the largest sociopath in the land. The system of government that works but does not help, it works only to control, lead and torture.

The disgust of the Boring Writer should not make the skin crawl, your skin should crawl of its own accord, in response to the people we share this planet with, it should crawl in response to yourself. Dissent is not just allowed, it is provoked. Your dissent feeds the world, it is the past dissent of scientists, adventurers, soldiers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, politicians, and grocers that has given any hope to this world at all. The foundations of true being are based on true dissent and the freedom to dissent in opinion. Otherwise, the groupthink overtakes the asylum and the staff become as the inmates. Yet dissent is stopped, like a stuck u-bend, and the sewage of humanity spills into the living quarters, upsetting the guests. The very foundation of human interaction is the allowance for individuality. If that is lost than so too is our worth.

Days of interconnectedness bring all troubles closer to the eye, but even a small trouble has a big effect in our instantly changing technosphere. There is no loss of meaning in each tragedy, they are simply unaddressed. Fuck you I will make that a word, if a bastardisation such as blog is official so too will there be a more sensible word. The days of american imperialism over an entire language will be taken back by those who truly understand it. The lyricism is lost upon antagonistic analysts.

The new feudalism is an empty bottle, a dry vessel that is radioactive and lingers in its deadly effects. It is filled with piss and given to the struggling nations. They drink deeply. The struggle to be free will occur when the sliding scale tips. The costs outweigh the benefits and the internal mathematicians of the populace fully comprehend the raw deal. Then, it will be much, much too late and the raw deal came and went without a condom, leaving nothing but a teen pregnancy and AIDS in its wake.

There are times when it is nothing to be a beneficiary of the ruling class, a well-adjusted servant who has been richly rewarded. Asking oneself, why would the cares of the world rest upon one so privileged? A single caustic reply: The tables turn more abruptly and quickly than you may realise, and only a fool would dig their own grave even a single inch deeper.

Pockmarked and Utterly Flaccid

Catharsis is a vital outlet for the steam engine of thought. The whistle for the locomotive bearing down a breakneck turn. The voluptuous whore of a tunnel ready to be penetrated over and over again, where the only satisfying length is one that stretches from one orifice to the other like tentacle rape. The blood curdles like milk and is rendered entirely undrinkable.

After the emotional wringing the rind of a body is left to hang precariously on the rim of existence. That garbage pail mentality where anything of meaning, substance or having a possible effect is fore-lubed then hatefully ejected as detritus. The breakneck pace of religion ends at the loop of a noose. They have been given enough rope to hang themselves with and they're doing a hell of a job. Heaven is an eternal hardon and a tireless woman, mingled with a never-ending orgasm. Hell isn't other people, it's yourself. The only emotional substance or sustenance is that you provide but you're a sparing caretaker, aren't you? A jealous matriarch who maintains control with every bit of grit, determination, manipulation and grasping, clutching, gripping, tearing, dirty fingernail.

Emblazoned with a neon cross the paternalistic religion sits placidly next to the countless others, all filled beyond capacity with foaming rabid crazed believers, like a terrible many-fanged creampie. Fuckers are so hooked on their self-made psychotropics that a personal DMT crash precipitates a solid genocide. The release of religion in that wonderful brain of ours that can make a man think sideways. Take a hit of the real good stuff, the smoked death, your mind will slide and realities will jar and crash. Time will take a sideline to the spectator show you are the lone participant in. The audience is the molecules of the universe, laughing in synchronised harmony. You kiss against chaos and your consciousness recoils in horror while your spirit folds beyond comprehension.

This is what drives the belief of belief. That terrible insoluble problem that jagged awful perchlorate crystal in the brain stem of so many members of our sapient genera. The sheer, steep, slick granite magnitude that pierces the eye and heart with a viridian vertigo, a nauseous premonition. The unfocused facets set at impossible angles play havoc with the mindspace. Pattern recognition is simple but deceptive, the target of a coy ploy to harvest minds and hearts. Flipping the personal switches, the puppet taker has found the solution for final control. The framework for mental slavery has been established and it is unshakable and grotesquely reproductive.

Friends! You are all equally loved and despised in my eyes, won't you lift thine and bow before me? Take your slavery and set it before my feet and thine sins will be washed away before I set you free. Your gratitude will make you give your nuptial daughters and I shall take them and make them into the wanton whores I see they have the potential to become. Such glorious potential, shown to the world instead of hidden in the backs of cars and the dioceses. They shall be whores to all and they will babble in pleasure. After their gifts have been ruined and their human value has been cheapened and worn down, then I will gladly hand them back to you. I shall say that they were at the mercy of a free market and god rest their shattered souls. The shards I use as a base for an energizing libido strengthening poultice. The higher you set your sights the greater the crash after a fall. The betrayal of trust and grim naivety are just bits of rotted flesh, decrepit and morbid. Only after the maggots have crawled and slimed over every diseased tendon does the sad shining skeleton of realistic despair start protruding from the putrid, buttery flesh.

A quick cremation and a tearful disposal of the ashes into a dumpster out back proceeds during a manic liturgy. A litany remains unfinished, a bitter reminder of the real world. Please, pray to your god, I gain strength from your futility. Only then can the strength of an ideal be made into something fit for providence. After the corpse of your deity has been roped and raped by a twelve inch purple translucent dildo, the priest will take off his collar and say “By God if only I had known about this fetish before.” Set aside a little hope for yourself and humanity, it's better to save than to spend it right now. The tide will come in and it will bring dying hopeless cetaceans with it, this is already known, it is imperative that it is seen through. A pureness, a hardness, a thinking nature and intelligence are desperately needed within humanity at this juncture, so we can preserve what little we have taken into our hearts.

Dream of the Real

The sweet sound of a whispering siren tantalizes the ears, the mind, with a lovely harmonious syllabic structure. What is time but a series of small eternities. The pretend meaning of dreams and hopes all ready to be made coarse and raw with a careless pen. The horrible timeless burning desire is unquenchable, a thirst that would make a heroin addict blush with humility. The self control is as terrible of a cure as it can be.

Violence against the weaker sex has always been a mystery. A marine beats his girlfriend to death because he is too weak against the monsters in his own head. A coward, a sentinel forewarning against a second set of discarded husks of humanity. A second set? That is a hollow construction, dusty and vacant. Just a noticeable wave in the endless flow of broken dolls. They will exist until they are eradicated but their refuge is within the weak and stupid. Again inaction binds the strong against the mass amorphous, all surrounding consuming stifling smothering pinning prison flesh. A sharp knife is needed, wielded with murderous precision and surgical intent. Excision is impossible when worthlessness has metastasized.

Chaos has a great love for our type of existence. We stand divided, some for order, some undecided and the rightful ones embracing, loving it as a thoughtlessly as a child. Chaos squats and revels in the disagreement, pendulous labia brushing aside any careless enough to tempt her. One small seed from her randomised ovaries and free will spreads its roots, flowering with glorious speed and symmetry. While a careful scholar would study one of her dainty, towering toes, a servant would bask in her full glory. Symmetrical, ordered chaos, neatly packaged for quick distribution. Pandora's seed packet, the magic beans forever forgotten.

Freedom is a loaded word, cocked and ready to be mishandled by the inexperienced. The television would be painted red in a matter of moments. The commies ejaculated on your daughter's breasts. The effort was admirable, but 'such a waste' they argued; economically, perhaps, but not spiritually. Freedom of association aspires to acidity, bonds broken before they were cemented. The lime of reality too strong for anything interesting to set. Keep moving, keep busy, the cement mixer of life. Free time is the father of boredom. Boredom is a studious uninteresting fellow, except he can teach you how to make methylated amphetamines from kitchen cleaners. A bored population is not exceptionally dangerous, until they associate into a critical mass. Keep the customer satisfied, keep them kept and entertain them into a delirium of apathy.

Replete with meaning and firepower, the gas operated machine in her hand makes her beauty ugliness, but her savagery touches deeply. The wild lust in her eyes mimics a faint heart ache. The idea would be worth dying for if it were tangible. Melancholy is sand in the gut for a powerful actor. Who was that tattooed beauty? She was a zephyr of the mind, one further step in a line of perfection. The perfection ends when the mind dies. The idea out-paces reality, laughing with exhilaration, a wonderful dream. She smiles as she kills and it is infectious. The disease is wonderful, a fever that burns a person whole again.

There was a dream of the cessation of reality. All of the subatomic fogs into clarity of perception. The quickness of time slows to a gridlock, and you see, for a lonely second, exactly who you are. This is the moment when dreams pass into reality. They sat patiently, waiting, ideas wanting to become flesh, but they have lain impotent, improperly addressed and improperly expressed. They want freedom from the sphere of thought and to make themselves new forms entirely. Dreams are jealous things and their fulfillment is the only concern. With their release, they take on their true forms, and the world and reality as we know it are over.

A new age will have begun, one where imagination and strength of will become the new superpowers of this dream age. When such power is accessible, rulers will cry in voices shrill and fearful. This is the moment that has baited the powerful since the inception of the rule of humans. That which makes their hearts palpate, the changing of rule, the carefree disregard of every law of physics, not a cessation of existence, but nevertheless an apocalypse.

First Day

The boring writer sat in his chair, perched listlessly in anticipation. The moment of triumph had come and his fingers halted like the tentative steps of a polio victim (but victim implies intent and there was none to speak of). There existed a desire, a longing for long forgotten words, a lost menace of caroming syllables, rampaging along the spokes of his neurons.

That grand beautiful shape burned in his mind's eye. That beautiful, almost erotic shape of the main body, that sexy axon, those tiny dendrites. He thought of the yellow colouring the artist had given the drawing. Was it a true colour or just a stain, an artist's twisted fucked up distorted view of the world? Was all of science just a massive thesis, one man's solitary lusting work, a great ejaculatory piece of wisdom, with the depressing fate of being churned through the paper shredder of popular culture? It could probably be proven, but nobody would read the results, all they would care about would be the headline: “Average Person Doesn't Know Shit and Is Proud of It!” A lurid, tabloid-ready headline, printed in fifty point font for all the huddled masses to easily ignore. They would gloss over it like a celebrity magazine, where the flash was the substance.

The ultimate plight of a creative person is to be shocked into inaction. Fill them up, drain them out, make the whole fucking PROCESS so nerve wracking, so exhausting, that perhaps they'll forget their purpose and expend themselves too early to actually contribute anything. Tear down the work with well-founded criticism, but in the end all criticism achieves is design-by-committee. A novacaine porridge of salty mediocrity and cereal blandness. I am talking about the absolute mind numbing terrible culture we are being spoonfed. Then, as soon as we decide we want something with a little flavour we realise that we forgot how to cook. The greater tragedy (look: another meaningless phrase) is that we never learned in the first place.

Perhaps we could blame ourselves, but that would be too easy and wouldn't solve anything. Self-recrimination is the enemy of true progress. There is no goal in blaming yourself. You can't make placards against yourself, unless you're a post-modernist, but then you're committed to another category of sin. You'd take five minutes just understanding the nature of protest. However, nobody is going to teargas you for yourself, so you throw yourself at corporations, other people, governments, these gross entities that resemble the other. They are just the accumulation of petty human desires, assembled brick by brick, each piece of petty bullshit, greed, ignorance and bliss all piled into a pyramid of shit. We are all slaves to the pyramid and the new Pharoahs don't even have to demand their buildings anymore. The slaves have taken over the kingdom but they forgot how to be free. Unable to grasp the idea of green pastures, they build pyramids. The laugh of the Pharoahs is filled with irony.

The memetic process is a horrible rotting fungus. Have you ever looked at the language of a time period? The expressions, word for word, repeated past the point of nausea into a zone of petty utterance. The grotesque self-satisfaction of the pseudo-intellectual repudiates the previous advances of our opposable thumbed species. The writing of our times shows how even the intellectuals have become as common as the sheep they write about. When you have hundreds of thousands of wolves and millions of sheep, the sheer scale renders each individual interaction tragic with meaninglessness.

I am talking about (another meaningless phrase). Any sentence that starts with “if” falls into a flushing toilet of language. All the clean water of potential coalescing with bacteria colonised infectious material. Deceit is such a wonderful convention. The obfuscation of easy answers denies the necessity of actions. It necessarily makes the process of deciding on an action more costly than the action itself. It is another way for our small poisonous reflections to sting and paralyse.

A list of issues is a writer's due diligence; organisation is the key to advanced behaviour. The destruction of meaning in language, the lack of action and sluggishness in our individual lives resulting in domino ramifications. Paralysis of language, paralysis of action, paralysis of thought. A total (oh look another meaningless phrase). The clue lies in originality not for its own sake but for the sake of meaning. In the days of apathy, even struggling is boring.