Jaia Papitz's picture
Jaia Papitz


There's noting I could possibly tell you that you don't already know. There's nothing one can dream of that we didn't already grasp on to. So, what is left? Well, nothing and everything! Kinda extremist, one might reply. Of course, I'd whisper to the feeble?! In society, there's a lot that needs to be done. In reason, quite a little.

Right now, it's almost morning. Almost someone's dead and another's born. Almost. Unfortunately, the dawn will confirm the presumption. Daily. Yearly. Our limited, primitive method of communicating drowned in muddled beliefs, inexistent but omnipresent, from families we detest to love and love to detest, of wives and husbands that stuck along like a mortgage. They are only because we love the misery of paying the interest. The complaint. The “what can I do?”. If you ask yourself that, please, Die Sooner! Become a polluting biofuel so we, the rest of idiots, can be covered by the ashes of skin.

Out of 6.5 millions people, how many do you think have a functioning brain? By that, hello! I mean inquisitive, willing to know and dismiss the absurd when they meet or acquire it? How many? What do you think is the percentage, you the one who has the capacity do carry contradicting toughts, morals and lice at any given moment?

Re-reading the paragraphs above, I could say about myself that I sound jaded and metaphoreless. You already dismissed this post because of that, didn't you, humane and primitive creature? You are bound by what your environment constricted you to be. You pay interest on your house or you wish you could, don't you? To compress and not continue the charade, we are either raped or wished to be. Yet, we get angry because noting can be done. You are right! As long as we do not do it, nothing will be done.

The hope is the most pathetic form of self indulgence. One can not be reasonable and hope. Reason is impervious to hope.

Like billions of beings, sometime I wish with a faded scent of hope to have been ignorant. The pillar of absurd. The pallet of the windmill in a sandstorm. Instead, after a moment of belief, I just shatter what I know, pick it up from the floor and, fortunately, rarely refits the preexisting mold.


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