Writing used to be fun. Its become burdensome. Who am I writing for and what am I writing for? Numbing questions you have no interest in answering attack you all the time. Prodding and punishing you. It never ends, does it? Who cares but again there is that little motherfucker. It just won't let you be. Who is it? What does it want from you?
There is no escape.You are trapped...alone, confined, down in the dungeons.
Have had enough of contemplations and reflections. Please, no more! Let me be! Your cries are funny. They laugh at you. It will not subside. Its here to mock you. What are you gonna do? It mocks you some more.
I have stopped socializing. Going out has become bothersome. What are these conversations? Where do they come from? What do they want? What are they asking? Can't keep track of these jargon, so I move on, with that plough around me. It keeps repeating. Keeps strangulating.
Monarchy, Democracy, Capitalism, Globalization, Free Trade, Society, Culture, Tradition...what are these things? Who needs these systems?
The plough on my neck does enough. Keeps me isolated, confined; keeps me at war, a ceaseless battle.
Money depresses me ever more. If you wanna hear the truth ask people for money and they will tell you the truth. The only good thing about money seems to be its capability to make people speak the truth. If they are broke they are broke and if they want an interest on the loan that's an interest on the loan.
No bullshit and people respect that.
The plough on my neck is another matter.
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