The Virgin Suicides

Everything is made so very dramatic, so very serene and unreal. The world one big question that has to be answered, life without a purpose not worthwhile and dreams the keystone of success. The truth is never painted over with some shiny paint, it is as dull and raw as metal. The truth is cold, hard, like a January morning when you realise that life is not going to get any better. This is it.

I still haven't found the answer to why most of humanity is so desperate to sit out their entire lives. What do they expect is going to happen when they wake up tomorrow? All I see is a long list of days, weeks, years, decades without an end. A long treadmill of awkwardness and forced feeling, pre-written speeches and pre-meditated spontaneity. The world is one huge lie and we swallow this pleasant untruth like a baby sucks up the milk from his mother's breast unknown that his mother is an alcoholic crack junk.

There we sit, in out little houses along neat little streets. We are termites, crawling all over the place, trying to survive by eating the smaller ants. Building out houses, sucking the earth dry and pooping out waste. We are beautifully choreographed scum, dancing to the tune of money and desire. This whole thinking thing, having a brain, knowing left for right hasn't done us any good. We are probably better off with basic instincts, eat, sleep, shit, sex. Earth is no longer that simple, all who desire that simplicity are doomed to starve and be thread on by the large feet or multinational companies.

Even when we write about it, when I write about it, I sell my soul to their devil practise. I could go live in a cave, hoping that one day a meteor falls down on earth and destroys all human life, corrodes us to fossil imprints that once was our existence. Through the veil of emptiness surrounding my face, the blackness of life peaks through and all I wish for is a bit of sunshine on my rainy days. But then they come with their money, their guns, their endless preaching for "progress" and clouds gather and the rain pours down on my shoulders. Where once the lighthouse stood to direct seamen away from the danger of the rocks, now little bleeping red lights appear and the dark sea becomes even darker and more lonely.

The world is orbiting around an imaginary progress, speeding up and slowing down, killing natural life on its way. Cyborgs reign the planet earth by the time we realise and we our out on our spaceships, heading for the next destination, the next planet to destroy with our progress.