Write.

I wondered through certain places, and all I saw were pretenders. Those who are soft to talk, soft to think. Those who think nothing about everything. They read, write and speak: they profess words devoid of any and every meaning. God, how much they talk. Everything is within their grasp. Opinions that are more shallow than their writings. They read, write and speak: they have nothing to show. Despair before the nothingness they uphold. Pretenders that mimic others. Mimesis is art; but they are not artists. Exclude and include aleatory words into their own existence to justify the emptiness that is their reasoning. Now they scream against reason, too. There is nothing to be fulfilled. No duty to be conquered, no meaning to be disputed. Words are nulled under the guise of their suspicion. A disease of this malign individuation, yes. Cynics – with more beliefs than the most radical religious principled person. Hold onto the justification of your very own position of significance; thrive towards a pretentious self-satisfying institutional recognition. But never forget: do that in the name of something. Something that isn’t a God or many Gods. You are a pretender, after all.

Of pain they know nothing. Of suffering they know little. Of death? Ah, of death. Of death, my god. Who does not know such a thing? Ah, however, the pretender fakes its own suffering. It longs for taking everything others can give to him. It is the I that conquers the Others in a wave of a hand. “They are but serfs of the masses”, he thinks to himself. Yes, yes. They are indeed, my pretender of the highest upbringing. “They are nothing but diluted nothingness thrown into an abyss!”. I concede to you, reader. How amazingly well can your sophistry stand before the writer himself! Tricks of a genius. Genius?

No. Who are you? Why are you here? To be wondered… Poets are not liked. “He fakes so well that he fakes the pain he experiences”. You are a pretender, reader. Must the writer, who has been punched by every facet of life, attain to your pretentiousness? You are nothing, and so is the writer. The differences are leveling; similarities are nothing but illusions. You have no history within the confinement of this text: reader you do not exist here. Ah! The turning of tables. Must you care? Of course not. You desire to prove yourself worthy in the eyes of others. You desire to prove you are not pretending to be what you truly aren’t. But nothing is what you are. Formless: posited with negativity throughout. The task is placed. You mimic that which fulfills your own desire.

You are a slave.

No, no… Slaves suffer through their own subjectivity. You are not a slave, you pretend to be one. In the end, dear reader, contempt engenders hatreds. I offer you nothing but my contempt. Take it now!

 

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