While my brothers’ roar and hunt, I stay quiet and eat my bamboo. Unable to choose between black and white, I carry both heraldries with pride. I am alone most of the time and not many of mine exist in these times. Being so alone, does hit my mood. I roll and move slow, love is a sideshow as I live from day to day in a boxed cage. I do not care about the future and live in the here and now and I feel like a relic of better times. I am a Human, but I am a Panda in a world of monsters.
There was once a fly called Peter. He flew towards the light. Then he died.
There was once a fly called Emma. She flew towards the light. Then she died.
The world is a paradise turned sick, sucked dry of its beauty. It’s dark blood consumed for our own life of luxury. It’s green forests full of life replaced with jungles of concrete and steel. The fertile earth turned to ash by burning industries that spit fire day and night. As such our knowledge is our own loss of the paradise given to us.
The apple of wisdom, the apple of ideas, hope given to us, to shape our future, was also the poison that is slowly killing us, as we misuse its potential.
As such we must ask: Was the devil actually evil? Did he have hope we would use the apple in a wise and reflected way? While God already dismissed us like small children? Maybe God was right, and we are, but the worst sin is us that doomed the person who had hope into the inferno. Still today we blame that helping hand for our sins. Still today we have not learned, and still today we make the same sins as we did a hundred years ago. We are Uroboros. We are our own doom. We are eating ourselves and will be the end of all things.
John was born, and the parents smiled at his rosy flesh. “Face so young, free of worries,” the father whispered, “you will learn more than I ever did and you will be freer than we ever could be.”
John went to school to be chained by duties and rules. He learned that grades are the gates to a better future. As such he listened to the doctrinal words of the teacher and the lies in the books. How can written facts be wrong? The rosy freshness has long gone.
John had a job, and he was chained to his desk. The monotone glimmer, the shimmer of electronics, in the corner of his eyes hidden behind the piles of work, towering on the right and left of his sight. The boss enters and smiles.
“Freedom lies in money and money is earned with hard work,” putting more documents on top of already older documents. “A new PC will arrive soon so that more work can be asked of you”, said the snake tongue. The skin has turned pale and grey and became not better after every passing day.
John lies now dead in his grave. Freedom he has finally reached. Peace he can at last embrace. No work, no laws, no worries when the dead rest their eyes and minds. A soft smile on the lips as his soul unchained travels to a better world.
The wonder of anonymity is the fact one can imagine how the other one looks only based on the text. One cannot categorize someone by looks, gender or voice. One will love, appreciate and like people solemnly on what they write.
This makes writing the purest form of exchange, free from bias opinions.
Don’t worry when a person speaks from his heart, but worry when he does not speak any more and puts up a smile for the world.
In a society that gives us all the tools to be happy, why is there so much unhappiness?
In a world where we have so much peace, why do we have so much war?
In a world where we have so much education, why do we have a youth scared of the future?
In a world where we have so much charity, why are still millions of people dying?
In a world where we have justice, why do we have so much injustice?
In world that seems to be so perfect, why i am so unhappy?