it doesn't even matter how right you are

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic


Sitting uneasily in a park completely barren were it not for the flower beds leading up to the war memorial-a shrine commanding one's respect for men who died fighting for some vague cause. One which is never really even discussed except in cleverly devised history books. Complacent strangers with their freshly cut hair and coffees and fur coats swiftly scuttle on by as if repelled, each making a B line to his or her own comfort zone. Look how they teach their young. To be completely inhospitable to strangers. That any person who looks different is a threat. On one hand they somewhat acknowledge that the prevalence of mental health issues is a shame and on the other they actively view with suspicion, judge and despise any man with a skateboard or a hoodie whom they would readily submit through the cold processes of law to an unknown fate. I can't help but feel aware of their fear of the unknown. That stifling, creeping feeling that steers the innocent onto paths of righteousness. To work at one's job. To enjoy one's own luxuries. That is all. There is no kindness to be found here. And if there is it will quickly be squashed out with a cold swiftness in the form of people muttering under their breath, clearly having identified you with some stereotype. I can't help but feel deep pity for the schizophrenic who must endure all this and more and not even know which of it is real. But it's no skin off their backs to have us live in such a dejected way - those who control every aspect of our lives.

 Having broken no laws but rather I chose to dress in a certain way today, I suppose I am seen as reprehensible. Some kind of criminal. Associations are undoubtedly made with my nature to drugs, whether I am a drug addict (something seen in our culture as unvirtuous) or a drug dealer, it matters not, or perhaps I'm some kind of homicidal maniac. These are all stretches of the imagination made permissible by the constant blaring of the telescreens. That persistant voice, given a youthful, austere appearance of extreme dignity and conviction, that subconsciously encourages one to despise all that is strange. To be hideously and viciously suspicious of everyone in one's own life. Only when one does identify a flaw in someone's character, the correct procedure, which is deeply embedded into our subconscious minds, is not to confront them directly in a human manner. But it's to report them to a higher authority who is invariably obliged to act with a calculating coldness, with the slimy, bureaucratic processes of law, that which exists for the sole purpose of benefiting they who have hierarchical control.

 And it doesn't even matter how right you are, even if you're a great academic like Chomsky, for they ostracise us from any meaningful discourse. In their sinister, devisive, bureaucratic way with all their slimey accountants and parasitic lawyers, they enforce the will of the state. They compartmentalise our intellect so that one may be given the impression he has attained a high level of academic prowess when really he has just done everything he's been told and simply been made harmless. It's all calculated in such a coniving way. For example in a university course it's scarcely mentioned the exploits of corporations. Something Orwell said about us being snobbish? 

And now I'm made to feel the burden of guilt for no wrongdoing.


Submitted: March 08, 2021

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