When we first had Latin at school, 7th grade or so, I absolutely loved it. I ate that shit up. All others were like Meh, but I devoured it. Latin homework was always the thing I looked forward to doing. I learned all the vocabulary and delved into the grammar. The subject was utterly fascinating to me.
Predictably, I got very good grades. I was by far the best student in Latin. I was so good that when we had a translation exam, I wrote two different, ehm, let’s call them interpretations and passed one around secretly for the others to copy, which led to a funny situation once or twice, because the interpretations I passed around were always my second choices and not the ideal translations.
Now, here’s a short overview over the grade system in Germany. We have grades ranging from 1 to 6, 1 being the best. They are titled like this:
You usually need at least a 4 on average to pass the school year. In Latin, I always had a stellar 1.
Now, I was generally a good student and by the end of that year, I was proposed to change to a different school that would be more challenging.
Before I sold most of my stuff and the police took away my computer, I used to record a lot of music. I was always preoccupied with good lyrics and in a non-game sense, I consider a lot of them red pill. Let me show you.
Most of it is quite melancholical, sarcastic and angry. Others are forcedly heroic and jolly. I used to think that that was simply my taste of music, an abberation from normality.
But emotions follow rules, as I explored in an older article. While all my acquaintances used to make music that was rather happy and playful, it never resonated with me and my attempts to replicate such music just bored me to death.
The reason why I thought that it was just a strange taste of music was that although it resonated with me, I did not really feel the emotion that much. I did not feel sad, but the music turned out to be, more or less. Today it is clear to me that my unresolved trauma from living with my – probably Borderline – mother had simply dictated my base mood.
My whole life until now has been grey and the songs reflect that in a way. As a result of not being very emotional, I compensated with good lyrics. With intellectualism.
I know your blood is already boiling from reading the headline above, but read me out. Have you ever heard a woman fart? (Your mother doesn’t count.)
Consider the following viewpoint that has been concealed from you during your entire life: the female colon. Had you tried to consider it earlier, you would have found out that it’s not possible. That’s right, they don’t have one!
Did you ever get your dick dirty after fucking her in the ass? See!
The truth is: Women are heartless robots. Oh, wait. That’s not the movie I want to talk about. The movie I want to talk about is one I produced. One that will unfortunately never be exposed to the light of day. Just like the female colon. (Except in porn.)
Sun hides from my view, find truths that aren’t new. Feel like a child, cold, seeking for comfort. But the sun’s gone, different country. Feel the memory of pain, of craving love I could not gain. The wish is old and rude, not my loss is others’ loan. Every freedom time’s so frail, this is it, the purest mood: I just want to be alone.
Don’t pretend you could’ve saved me, I am scared down to my bones.
A child draws a bloody corpse or paints everything in black. Another child paints flowers and colorful dragons. Whatever. People say women are irrational. People say emotions are irrational. Bullshit. Only a fool considers emotions irrational.
Granted, I am being polemic. After all, the definition of rational thought necessitates consciousness. So by definition it is virtually nonsense to ask whether the subconscious or emotions are rational; to say that one’s emotions are irrational is as useful an information as the claim that apples are not strawberries. Well, they aren’t. Obviously. Is one supposed to be insulted?
Let go of bad thoughts. Let go of bad habits. Let go of bad people? Fuck, yeah, even that. Whatever hurts to let go, it runs too deep. Melt away the iron chains of the anchors that keep you from sailing adrift in feared freedom.
Lot has been said about letting go of negative influences. But what about those that we ourselves have produced. Years of tritely understood pain may have left behind a lot of creative output for some of us.