The Redpill

I hate romantic poetry. It makes me sick!

What we need is the Truth, depicted in surrealistic word pictures.
I want to see the poorly-built cities in your mind, the empty ravaged ones you deliberately bury in a faraway desert. I don't need the mainstream common sense.
Show me your psychotic side. The chaotic city in the back of your mind. The one you are aware of its existence and yet you are afraid to acknowledge.

You are paralyzed by fear just by picturing yourself stepping in it. You hysterically try to block every way leading to it. Because, your instinct knows that once you are willingly inside it, it won't be easy to return back to the purple and green city of lovely and warm humanity.
Some found a back door to get in and out safely. Yet, the more you wander there, the more your eyes capture, the more your brain records and the more you feel the cold gray Truth, the more you become addicted to the Key of the Gate.

It does not really matter how you access the place, as the means won't help you from drowning in the endless swamps of insanity.
Living day in day out with one's own devils in broad daylight is utterly beyond what the fragile human mind could bear.

Virtually everything has an explanation, and this distorted "reality" we live in is no exception.
To protect oneself, the weakest beings build in their heads the most fluffy and perfect models of the perceived world and keep living on their soft cloud denying their ugliness and even its very existence.
The denial of the Truth is what keeps the sanity of the weak mind.
A perfect dream is what keeps a weak being struggling for life and yet, surviving in fright, cowardly fleeing the Truth.

The world is a dark pit. People are ugly, let's admit it.
Look at yourself in a mirror, weak being.
Look in your demons' eyes, Human.

Please, allow me to help you discover and be acquainted with your best and most hideous demons.
Thus, in the next part, if you freeze in panic or feel the hectic then quit listening to my sharp words and go to the last line to swallow the Bluepill as soon as you snap out of the trauma.

You harvest fame or wealth with greed. You may be desperately seeking power, and you call that ambition.
You march in swarms to empty the malls of fancy clothes, beautiful stones, and hi-tech gadgets.
You step on the Earth's face with boots drenched in every creature's blood. And, you pretend that your aim is mere survival while you savagely nurture your vortices of vanity, lust, and gluttony.
You ignore the price for that. You ignore crushing the heads of polar animals and skinning them in cold blood. You don't mind using a civil war, using the poor of your same kind to reach riches.

You dramatically mourn the death of your old pet and blissfully have a sunshine of delight for a human's. You feel the urge to see some people tormented, tortured and even dead and mutilated.
None equals you, wrathful creature.
You feel satisfied exterminating individuals of your own species. And you know what's even more marvelous about you?
You find a good reason for it, you prove it tight logical! You may even call it justice, over a cup of tea, and, the same night, sleep peacefully like a baby.

You make me vomit out of disgust making all your theories about a better world and, acting cute and perfect.
You keep a shallow contact with the cruel reality sugarcoating tangible facts.
You show an aggressive sense of possession and supremacy and you call it love and tenderness.
Your heart is filled with hatred. You despise those who cross believes with you. And you are able to promote nice excuses to exclude them and make them helpless diasporas.

You could have gobbled the Truth. But, it seems that your supply of the imagination is nearly infinite.
I'm dead certain that you will keep living in your plausibly consistent wonderland and wind up oblivious meat in a tomb.


Have a good night of sleep, wake up in the morning, and what a beautiful day it is!


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Footnote:
The pictures used herein are copyrighted to their respective owners.