Where did the real truth slip away? It’s mixed with all lies, blending in the form of fear, in the form of shivering. When the mind turns its back to conscience, every thought becomes suicidal. Body paralysis, shivering, and persistent lack of air where there’s plenty of it. When did we become so alienated from emotions, cut off from rationalism, killing ourselves inside out, over and over again? One scene, multiple scenes until the scene is gone. What moment lost us? We hold on to it, but when the moment lets us go, we become paralyzed, cut off from the feelings. All those words that slipped down the tongue, silently, didn’t even get a chance to be heard, to be understood, the words that come out, yet, we wonder what’s inside us because these aren’t the words similar to our own, that’s not a sound reminiscent of ours. We have no feelings other than feeling paralyzed. When did we get so cold that the rest of the others shivered because of our touches? When did we become so ashamed in front of ourselves, looking in the mirror, night and day? We think about introspection, but the reflection shows how introverted we are, and every “I can do it” changes into another teardrop until the mirror breaks, and comes to the distortion of the personality. I don’t believe we’ll ever know what’s worse, whether dying from thirst and lack of fluid that life gives us, or drowning in its waves. Are we resorting to established prejudices inside us, or are they catching us? Or maybe we’re just walking through this unpredictable place, staring at a social watch we can never get rid of?
As someone who people describe as a writer, I can only confirm one thing. I bleed words before blood, and that’s my greatest tragedy, but at the same time, a gift. I notice a lack of empathy, care, and compassion. And the big question is: when did global psychic deadness happen and why? We skip morality and lose our long-established manners. We have forgotten about the existence of ethics and its meaning. The human race faces tragedies that change the course of life every day, unknown roads, wrong turns, and dead-end streets where we often get lost. Stiff at the same place, we push ourselves with our legs and arms to get out of the routine. We’re throwing ideas off a cliff, stepping over living bodies to reach goals. And every wrong scene turns us into better actors, and each well directed into amateurs banging their heads as they hit the wall, questioning themselves if they could have done better than good, bolder than brave, more honest than fair. When we become so ambiguous, to look for a meaning where it’s gone? Every sense died in us, and the executioners are us, neurotically fearless, a little less aware, much more divided. About what? Piece by piece, conscience moves out of sight, but we glaze over with what our essence wants to taste. When we become so disconnected from ourselves, strangers in front of characters without shapes, with unsynchronized ideals, and we rise each ideal more and more until they run out. And what remains after floating on the cold surface of the same ocean that mercilessly drowns us in its bitter truth? Do lips wrinkle and their blue color is no longer recognizable because it’s water-like, or does an unknown hand clamp our necks until we become a wrinkled image of people who we used to be, people who deprive themselves of the right to find meaning outside the weird, and within the bare truth. What’s left?