Tamara Stamenkovic
Self-knowledge,  Written literature | Author's writings

Are you ready for your alternative?

Electricity buzzes through the lines we draw in front of the people we push from ourselves, in front of the moral principles they swindle us as a good trick, the ego rises, and everyone only looks down. I wonder why if the decisions are right. Bits of dreams transmitted through the sky don’t know if they will ever live or when it’s time to die. And seeing that we are all eager to exploit other people’s characters, we want to get what we miss besides empty backpacks where even more empty memories are scattered inside by accident so that the whole world can see what matters to us. Words of praise don’t flatter if we don’t feel pride. It’s sad to see what cannot be left behind monuments and statues of what shouldn’t be building. What would you give to see a better way of life or a day that celebrates the stories of victims of false promises, bad feelings, dead souls of living people? History is full of stories about blood not being mentioned, advertising all the lies that are selling for a smile, the bloodshed by those who terrorize their minds.

Love begins and ends, and new faces become old friends because the love that flew freely is now closed and locked down, shelves that store what we haven’t told each other, and tomorrow becomes today and yesterday faded into a lost memory. New ideas are filled with skeptical scrutiny in detail because how are we going to stop doing what we knew? How difficult it is accepting those traditional methods are based on misunderstanding and misinterpretation, and what the previous generation handed us was a smile painted on the face of a clown who cries? We don’t look around to understand what’s fair. We’re just here to say that what exists is just what we knew before, already seen. No one wants to find a new way to be free, only the old path to familiar places, hearts filled with despair, and lonely longing. Human rights are overwhelmed by the desire to belong to groups sitting on a throne, an old bunch of bones, and then they don’t know why they can’t get a share in it.

We borrow time from unborn offspring and leave less of us than we have. Our reality is porous and trembling, but we don’t believe in creation, we worship ruins and destruction, we break the ground for new steps, while the dying souls pass unnoticed. We give our energy to the makers of fictional rules, and as they participate in the luxuriant pray of bleeding bodies, we dream of peace and a collection of dreams sold through galleries around the world, to see how much each is worth. Although there’s a different design to keep everything we had and no matter if it’s always wrong for the majority, the world will make the selection according to the minority. Hollow and empty, small and subordinate, to something we don’t even know what it is, but they hold us in their grip, and that’s enough for us.

In the river of life, we ​​all dive in the end, we all float downstream, but without our drops, there would be no water.

In a collection of lost dreams and muted screams, we’re all guilty of what we ignore. We all play the role of pawns, while kings and queens sacrifice what they don’t care for and what doesn’t mean to them.No one will ever know what’s the price in tears and years, because no one wants to know what terrifies them, so we end up just like that, in ignorance and fear. Are you ready for your alternative?

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