Virtual Stupidity

I don’t get it. I really don’t get it. What is the fuss about virtual relationships nowadays? It is the biggest bullshit i’ve ever heard.

Virtual relationships? Okay.

But considering this any close to being a real one? Please.

The popularity of Facebook has led people into cultivating a whole new concept of social interactions. And human beings, being the usual ‘intelligent’ race out there which doesn’t cease to prove the contrary, has established that annoying ideology of the legitimatisation of virtual relationships. Let’s be honest, no one gives a fuck about that. No one is really honest. The only ones who are honest are the brainwashed girls à-la-Disney who have the pre-conceived idea of True love being out there and virtual relationships facilitating their oh-so-not-true belief that Prince Charming-pants is waiting for them. And of course, this is heaven-on-earth for all puber-shy guys with a still undeveloped voice, to exploit those girls and make them show their body parts or lure them into a fantasy world which has no place in reality. But ladies, don’t squeal too fast, boys are unfortunately lured too, by manipulative b*tches who have no self-respect and willingly show their private parts because, *ding ding ding*, social networks have allowed hormonal teenage girls to expose their insecure butts on the web in exchange for some insincere, sugar-coated words from 60-year old perverts with an airbrushed Justin Bieber picture.

But the most annoying ones are those who actually fall in love.

This.ain’t.real.life.people.

You don’t get married to Times New Roman love messages in your Facebook chatbox. You don’t hold hands with Pusheen emoticons, or cuddle with statuses that show “What’s on your mind?” today. I’ve encountered, more than once, people who stupidly fall in love with other people on the net. Thing is, the intensity of feelings depends on the person, but it doesn’t limit its risks. Once you set your eyes on someone in the virtual world, your mind becomes wild with imagination, filling the blank spaces that do not explain fully who is the person you have a crush on. It is in human nature to favour the most pleasant side of someone, let’s face it, the less you know about the person, the more you can invent or interpret the type of person he/she is. Thus, making you believe that the person is perfect for you. That he/she is ‘The One’.

Whereas in ‘real life’, where physical things do matter, people stop being cowards if they want to achieve something, they strive to get to know the person, they know how they act, how they walk, how they talk, how they smell, and most importantly, how they act towards other people than you. On the internet it is too easy to create a new identity and make people believe what you want them to believe. You hide behind your keyboard, luring yourself into thinking that virtual relationships are a legitimate alternative that allow you to stay a pathetic coward unwilling to grow up and be an adult who would consider relationships as between two people, not two social networking accounts.

People complain about how our highly acclaimed ‘modern world’ has transformed into that self-serving, egocentric materialistic era whereby human beings are less human, and computers learn to be human (Ex: SIRI). We are moving away from what makes us human: physical human contact. While some say that social networks have allowed for a more flexible, varied network of connection, I say it isn’t without its banes. We shouldn’t overlook its effect on us on the sole reason that “it’s life”.

Social relationships are becoming increasingly superficial and neglected. We become mere recipients of messages and information, lacking the warmth and care human contact had always been giving. It is grotesque how people nowadays believe that a real relationship can be built on mere virtual interaction. If you pair it with real life experiences it is fine, but basing yourself on virtual chit-chats to build a strong relationship? Good luck sweetheart.

Humans’ need for love.

Humans’ need for love.

As a little girl I dreamed of true love, that a fairy-tale like prince charming would pick me up in his arms and declare me his love forever. As I grew up this idea developed in a need, that later on I realized, rooted from an ever growing insecurity. Then, I reached a stage where I stopped believing in love altogether, actually considering engaging in casual relationships where feelings were not necessary. But it’s not me. And I know most people are the same. I mean, since they seem to not find ‘The One’, they end up losing hope, and thus settle for less, the comfortable, the stable. But it’s not how we should do it. I agree that sometimes love, true love, may seem overrated but when you get a hold of it, when you feel it and are able to live it to the depths of your soul, you feel complete, like the fusion of someone else’s soul with yours. Nowadays we have been conditioned into fitting society’s demands and rules. But at what price? At some point in my life I thought, why do people insist on finding someone else? can’t they be satisfied with who they are? There is art, knowledge, wealth, fun, nature, and life. All of it should be largely enough to fill someone’s life. But then I realized that all of these mean nothing, if you do not have someone to share it with.

Fire Escape

Fire Escape

I knew her when she was a little girl. Apart from others, she was. Away from me, she was. But the Others were drawn to her, to her unique, yet mysterious nature. They sought her admiration. It was the unwritten law of hierarchy that you admire someone, just for the sake of admiring. I chose that unreasonable, frustrating, fascinating and lonely girl. Damned were the rocks she threw at me, damned were the words she threw at me. She found pleasure in my displeasure, happiness in my unhappiness.

I was a man of virtue. But not of strength. Father was ruthless at that time, he was ruthless in his silence. What did I do to him? Wasn’t I good enough? I tried every night “Wanna play ball, papa?” but he didn’t flinch, on the lucky days he grunted. But that was it, a shadow always managed to cloak his face from expression. His eyes were constantly elsewhere. Always dark. Except on the days when he wasn’t silent, my mother’s screams were always covering his voice. His silence then became a luxury I never saw the light of. Mother always said that those we love the most always manage to hurt us. I wonder if that was what she always told herself on those nights. Thirty years later I still try to shake the constant feeling that I was actually an orphan, in search of a papa.

I found an escape in The girl. When I saw her for the first time she was alone, keeping to herself and scribbling something on someone’s copybook. She looked at me and a chill went through my spine. Dark brown eyes, framed with silky black hair tore my soul into pieces. I was surprised, it showed I still had a soul left. I thought papa took it away when he took mama away with him in the house fire. Mama couldn’t bear seeing Father go, he left another woman to be with her after all. But he always managed to remind her of that. Every.Night.

Grandma took me in, but the silence was like a spider, doing its web around my heart. The girl invaded my mind then. The same night when I missed mama I thought of another world, where The Girl and I loved each other, where she loved me because I was important, because I mattered, and because I was worthy to be loved. I felt a little less alone then.

We were never friends though, I was too busy loving her in my dreams. It was a rule to never tell her, else my dream would shatter, and I’d be left with nothing. She had her life, and I had ours.

Years later I decided to let go, it was grandma who told me so. “Why hold on to something that doesn’t bring you anything, sweetheart?”. I tried to man up and tell The Girl everything. At this moment, a straight line separated reality from fiction. She changed, transformed into that harmless being that was a stranger to my feelings. She became an ordinary, yet pure creature, which I no longer love.

It was my suffering that kept my love alive. I couldn’t understand it at first, but then I saw it. I saw its logic. Absolute love generates absolute hate, and average love generates average hate. It took me twenty two years and half to realize that the only reason she mattered so much is because she made me feel alive when I was surrounded by death. I stayed away from her to be hurt on purpose. I needed to bleed to know I still had blood running through my veins. As a child, imagination was my escape when the window wasn’t enough.

And that’s where it hit me.

I saw in her indifference a papa that was never mine in the first place.

He was Hers.

I took Her papa away when I set Him on fire.

Trapped.

Warning: Mature Content. Scene of sexual nature.

                                                                                                Trapped.

I walk in the dark streets aimlessly, not knowing where they bring me. Small bubbles of light appear above my head, no, they’re street lights, nothing unusual. Darkness overwhelms me, blinds me from reality, a wandering soul in search of the closest source of warmth. Ripped newspapers litter the streets, I feel bright eyes on me. Eyes that I can’t see.. I smell smoke from the nearby bar, drunk husbands litter the ground as much as ripped newspapers. They make huffed sounds, look at me with hungry eyes, hungry hands, hungry pants. Some crawl towards me, block hurried second-hand cars from turning round the corner, others whistle, as if I was some kind of animal. I continue walking, plunging deeper into the quietest part of the place. I am alone with the wind, I feel its breezy fingers ruffling through my hair, touching my neck, feeling my hips. Closing my eyes, I stop in the middle of the streets, when suddenly two strong hands pull me in a pitch black corner of the street, in between two ancient buildings. My eyes still closed, though harder now, a high-pitched yelp escapes my lips as the two hands began exploring my body to my utmost horror. My breath becomes ragged. And since my back is to the owner of the daring hands, I get to avoid the icy stare of the monster hungry for my body. The cold soul that once seemed to be mine begins to dangerously warm up as I feel the hard, irregularly heaving chest against my back. Slowly, our breaths seem to have accustomed to each other, his going along with mine in unison. Gradually, he places his hands on my silk shirt, unbuttoning it while he removes a strand of black hair from my terrified face. When the unbuttoning is done, my bare chest is revealed, two firm breasts exposed to the harshness of the Winter wind. I feel his long fingers  tracing down from the nuzzle of my neck down to my chest, circling my nipples, playing with them, pinching them, teasing them. I try to get out from his grip but he pulls me harder. How would I have known that my brief rebellion had no effect other than arousing this stranger? He thus begins to touch my neck with his lips. His pecks starting out slow and tender, followed by soft blows to cool the mark left by his wet lips. As his rough, manly hands play with my breasts, his pecks grow to be more demanding, more aggressive. I sense a shift in his behaviour as he begins thrusting his crotch against my back. We thus start this oddly sensual dance in the mysterious night as I still don’t know the identity of this man. I am exhausted by fear, my knees begin to give in. He feels it. My fear intensifies as I feel his strong hands traveling down the helm of my skirt. I scream out ‘No!’ but he does not seem to hear, or care. He pulls out a thick string of rope from his pocket and ties my hands to a pipe running along the brick walls of the humid alley. I hear someone coming, ‘Help me! HELP!’ I yell, but as I see two pairs of paws with green eyes staring at me I realize it was just a black cat. A chilling laughter echoes in my ears. “Hold still.” the monster mutters, “We’re not done yet.”

Weekly Song Review

The song begins calmly, thankfully lacking the nauseous pretentiousness of recycled pop-rock wannabes of this decade. Immediately, the calm beat is followed by a playful whistle, establishing the overall melody of the whole song. Suddenly but gracefully, Dan exclaims “I wanted love, I needed love”. You can hear his rugged breath in the background, showcasing his implicit passionate involvement into the song – “Someone said true love was dead/ And I’m bound to fall, bound to fall/ For you”. Patrick ingeniously uses the beats to prepare for Dan’s repeated verses, adding variety to the beat and thus to the song, killing off all apparent monotony so archetypical as to most computerized songs nowadays, those lacking the genuine, underground sound of musical ingenuity. The simplicity of this song brings forward a laid back, almost careless movement of words and expressions as Dan belts out his deep-felt emotions.  Its fast-pacing rhythm is catchy and fun to listen to, you easily find yourself headbanging or tapping your feet to it, or both. And yet you never manage to be disoriented. However the repetition may seem as a flaw, but it ends up being one of its strength since it puts emphasis on Dan’s emotions and intentions as he  is “runnin’ wild, runnin’ wild” towards the “need to get steady”. This development of intentions showcases the evolution of love stages , but nonetheless appears to be a common theme, used again and again by rock artists.

Anyway, you get pulled to Dan’s rusty voice, you feel like you’re a friend listening to someone’s long day, you feel that connection enforced with the attractive and playful melody that successfully entertains and catches our attention and shapes a unique identity to this musical piece of blues/rock. There is nothing rushed, but more passionate and we feel Dan’s complete abandon into his story, that could easily be ours, as we’re “Living just to keep going/ Going just to be sane/ All the while not knowing/ It’s such a shame”. Dan seems to be blending, then guiding the whole assembly of instruments, which, albeit obviously different in their musical outcome, come together as a successful blend of sounds, forming thus, the grammy-winning song called ‘Tighten up’ by the Black Keys’ album ‘Brothers’.

11:23 pm letter

Could this be another change – The Samples

Dear friend,

I have seen things in my life. Elders being picked on by youngsters, priests helping a homeless man having a seizure, girls kissing, a crying teacher, a wounded dog, a child in the dirty water of the underground canal, smiling babies, a proud father, a crying mother, pink nipples, running hawkers, dried leaves flying, dead trees moving, a black dog with its newborn puppies, a red-eyed rabbit, a green-loving tortoise, a mother insulted by her daughter, half-tanned boobs of a stranger,  a tourist removing her panties in the sea, and the light coming through leaves as the sun rose. I just don’t think that I know life yet. Maybe a small part of it. A beautiful part of it. However, death seems to be a calm alternative as well. When I see the horror that human beings are capable of doing I wonder, maybe we are better off all dead. Such atrocities should not be allowed. We all have some kind of horrifying story in our life. To what degree I don’t know. My life has been pretty idle, pretty normal. I guess that explains my inability to see atrocities as a mere part of life. I wonder, are atrocities considered atrocities because society decided so? If there were no society, no rules, no norms, no values, and there were just, us. These ‘atrocities’ would still be there, except, they would only be seen as occurrences, made possible by our own very existence. So, maybe death is the solution. Death is calm, soundless. It is inevitable, and probably better for everyone.

On the other hand, there is life. Life is the wind blowing straight to your face, it is you closing your eyes as you spread your arms wide open, feeling the light on your shoulders. Life is freedom. I guess our choices define who we are. You know, choosing is way harder than just, Being. Being is like going with the flow, careless about the outcome, just enjoying whatever comes our way. Whereas choosing, choosing is choosing where to pinpoint our stream, where we want to go, and who we want to be. It is much more difficult to put ourselves out there than waiting for others to do that in our place. But when you’re a 18 year old ‘adult’ like me, you wished you could return to the time when forgetting things was the worst that could happen to you, and not the best.

I really don’t know what’s got into me, always writing letters. I guess they’re my alternative to speaking alone. At least my mother won’t listen behind the door or my sister surprising me by my window. Writing letters is much less embarrassing. You could at least pretend you’re writing an essay or something. I wonder why I’m so open. I never really was. I always kept a facade, thinking I knew what I was doing, thinking people liked it. They hated it. They still do. And I don’t really give a damn about it. Negative people belong to the thrash. I’m no better, I know, you know that. But I guess having a dark side doesn’t prevent us from seeing the darkness in others right? We see it in others, because we can recognize it. The only difference is whether you know how to pull yourself out of it or not.

The only way to go in life is forward. Thinking about the past is pointless. Memories have an effect on you when they’re worth remembering. The worst thing for someone is using his present to think about the past. It’s like rewinding the first half of a movie over and over again in your head while the second half is playing just in front of your eyes and you’re too busy remembering to notice anything. It’s hard though, not thinking about the past. It always manages to grab you and shove down your throat memories you don’t want to remember.

But everything happens for a reason. I’ve always fiercely believed in this. Anything and anyone, all heartbreaks and refusals and pain, everything has a purpose.  It may have multiple purposes as well, you just need to be open minded enough to let it in. Sad are the people who think that their life brings them nowhere. It is even worse for those who do not notice the little things and focus on the big picture. They are bound to live in a spiraling life of undeserved misery. I blame it on the materialistic nature of modern-day society. They always seem to squeeze their lemon-prejudiced acid on us, the salad before the meat. Social networking has made it even more sour, cultivating fallacy, pushing back the bounds of human decency, encouraging the outrageous hypocrisy of human identity. Duck faces have replaced values and The Biebs has replaced The rolling stones. May God forgive us.

Anyway, it is late, I may come back later.

Good night.

Ana.

The Know-It-All

My past experiences with primary and high school were not great.

You often encounter empty-headed people judging you without having an ounce of knowledge of where you come from. Sadly, this very predicament is a global phenomena. In all societies, all cultures and all spheres of human stupidity, labeling is a must if you are to be considered a fully socialized human  in a judgement-driven goal to categorize and dominate the weak. Pretty damn stupid if you ask.

The know-it-all is found everywhere. At work, at home, in the media and mostly at school. Young people love to elect the know-it-all in a collective unconscious (and in the mean circles, consciously) agreement.

The Know-it-all is often seen as annoying, attention-seeking, arrogant, ignorant, immature, naive, different, unfriendly, too friendly, desperate, irritating, stupid, show-off, awkward, mean, close-minded, distant, virginal, unattractive, asexual, uncool, retard, slow, fast and this can go on and on.

People love to feel they are above others, especially above the know-it-all. And when they are in groups, it is even more fun. [Cue the sarcasm] The know-it-all has to master the skill of ignoring the whole class rolling their eyes every time The know-it-all dares to ask a question. Of course, asking a question when you have a doubt is completely unacceptable. Oh, and there is, of course, a limit of questions you have the right to ask. Indeed, the moment you cross that limit, you are immediately considered as an attention-seeker. No, people won’t assume that you’re someone who wants to understand the fullest. No, they will, instead, appreciate and take note of the answer to the annoying question because they were too scared to ask the question themselves. Most people do not realize that The Know-it-all doesn’t give a flying fuck of their fucking opinion. That’s why The Know-it-all asks so many questions. Partly to annoy the rolling eyes, and throw rolling stones to their rolling asses when they rolling in the deep corners of  failure at their exams.

I’ve heard my fair share of snorts and snickering and gossiping about how annoying I am. People do not care about how The Know-it-all feels. They only like to react exaggeratedly to the mere answering of The know-it-all by sniggering or just scoffing. They won’t even try to understand The Know-it-all, it is so much easier to see The Know-it-all as someone to be called stupid . They won’t think that the Know-it-all has to live up to expectations at home, because her parents count on her. They won’t think a second that The Know-it-all has to face judgmental rolling eyes whenever she tries to understand better a concept she doesn’t know. Even the stupidest question is important to her. School is made to understand. The Know-it-all doesn’t want to be engrossed in that counter-culture that cultivates the notion that being rebellious and lazy and inattentive in class is “cool”. Because being rebellious, lazy and inattentive isn’t going to bring anyone anywhere. I respect all Know-it-alls in that world, because they have been strong enough to stand up against all the lazy-tards trying to lure them into an easy life.

I went from being the underestimated person to the annoying one. And if I had the chance to do it all over again, I definitely would. I changed myself because I was tired of being the loser. I changed myself for me. And if The know-it-all changed herself for those she loves, or those she hates, nothing good would come out of it. Because in the end, she’ll never be who she is. A smart person. The irony in being a know-it-all is that you never get called smart. You want to show that you are clever, but jealousy comes in the way of people or their need to crush someone and use their weakness to feel superior comes in and destroys all hope for the Know-it-all to have genuine friends.

In the mind of a know-it-all, being knowledgeable is good. But knowing the right thing is more important. The only way to do so, is by asking questions and answering them to check whether you understand. As simple as that. The know-it-all won’t give up hours of hard-work to remain silent just because others didn’t bother opening their copybooks. The know-it-all won’t be loyal to people who will never be loyal in return. It’s pathetic the way people think nowadays. This world has got a mindset that respects laziness and irresponsibility instead of morality. It has mixed up genuine friendship with friendship with benefits. It is unfair to those who work hard to have to face the bullying of every day life just because they work hard. People, seeing others being hard workers, would rather bring them down instead of trying to work hard too. And that is the sad truth people. That is the sad truth.

The Know-It-all.

I Remember…

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6 January 1996

…I remember the walls. Not too cold, not too warm. They always came in handy when you’re one year old.

My chubby hands kept me still since I couldn’t stand properly. I liked to feel the cool walls because they were relaxing, and they were fun. I always had goosebumps when I pressed my forehead on them. Mom had made me wear fluffy socks. Seriously, who wears fluffy socks in summer? Nevertheless, in Mauritius no one cares, you always wear fluffy socks when it is a special day, even for funerals.

There were lots of people in the living room. Whispers, laughs, gossip and people I couldn’t recognize passed by me.  I was taking quick looks in the packed living room. Every time someone caught my eye I giggled and ran as my little black shoes tap-tapped on the hard floor. I hid under my blanket with my pink ‘Pampers’ diaper in the air and my curly hair under my pillow.

It was the day of my very first birthday.

My grand father was still alive then, he was holding the alcoholic drink that made his breath constantly smell. Now I realize we had the same wrinkles under our eyes when we laughed. On that day I heard his laughing,. It made me feel happy, secure, it was something I could recognize amongst these weird unknown faces.

I don’t really know if I was hiding behind the wall because I was scared, shy or just playing. Maybe it was all three combined. I liked to tease people back then, I still do. Toddlers tend to get quite intimidated when there are a lot of people. I wasn’t, not really. I felt the excitement because somehow I knew it was a special day. My father was still thin back then and my mother had those wild curls that were fashionable in the 90’s. My godmother wanted to be a nun (she’s no longer now, she’s now happily married with two hyperactive chubby children) and I was the first grandchild born into the family. It was indeed a big event for everyone!

I couldn’t walk, so I walked on all fours until I reached the wooden chairs in my living room. I grabbed one of them by the foot and tried to stand. The following moment is still blurry but I remember all the singing, hugging and kisses. I was overwhelmed, so I began to cry. I was the only toddler of the party after all.

Now I’m 18 years old. Considered an ‘adult’ by my society. 17 years have passed and I wonder, is my innocence gone forever? I cling to that identity most of us try to find during our adolescence when it is actually what lies deep within us that ends up being who we are. The hardest thing is to be able to stay true to yourself while making choices, facing judgements and having to meet up with expectations of society.

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This post is part of a Weekly Writing Challenge by the Daily Post.

And the theme I chose was “Your earliest memory.” 

Losing our touch

“It seems strange
How we used to wait for letters to arrive.
But what’s stranger still
Is how something so small can keep you alive.” ~ Arcade Fire

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When I was nine years old, I was a very curious child. I enjoyed exploring unexplored places in my house. One of these places were my parent’s room. There were these large dusty drawers that nobody opened, because they were large and dusty. I saw them as a challenge. Deep inside I felt I was going to discover some old artifacts dating back to the years of my grandparents, making me even more determined to find something. I had developed a strong passion for ancient things by then because ancient things have stories. And stories have value.

That was when I found the letters.

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In the far back of the drawer, there was a stack of letters tied carefully together . They had that old smell that I love. I remember I observed it like some weird but fascinating object that was going to reveal some hidden secret, some hidden story that was going to complete the puzzle of my family history. When I opened them, I saw that they were love letters. Love letters of my parents. I smiled but immediately felt that I was intruding the lives of two complete strangers who lived in another world that I will never get to know. A world that I never got to be a part of. The letters were written in a formal french. They had an elegant and cursive handwriting, clearly written with care and patience. It got me thinking. These love letters made thoughts nearly tangible. Through your written words, you show who you are. You make mistakes, some scratches, some hesitation in putting a coma or not. A letter isn’t just paper and pen. There is that personal feeling, that personal touch that comes with it. That is what I saw through my parents’ love letters. And it made it even more beautiful, because these letters are tangible proof that a love like my parents’ existed. I got to know, through the way they interacted, who they were before I was born. I was feeling the same sense of warmth I felt when my father reminisced his ‘courting’ days with my mother: the weird food they ate on their first date and how my grandfather always waited with an eye on the family clock when my mother had to return home after a day with my father. Emails cannot do that. Just like reading a book and an e-book is completely different. But letters, letters are much more special. Sadly, the new generation will never get to really know what it is to wait weeks for a letter from our dear ones. Most people of my age would say they never got a handwritten letter, but I’m glad to say that I did, once.

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When I was first exposed to the world wide web, I discovered a website called Students-of-the-world, which connected young people from all around the world. Each and every one of us signed up with the aim of finding a genuine friend. I put up my home address into the ‘snail mail’ list without knowing what ‘snail mail’ meant. Six years later, when I forgot all about that website, and was completely engrossed into the much more efficient Facebook, I received a letter from an 8 year old Canadian girl asking me to be her friend. I saw the doodles, the margins, the cute handwriting that made me realize that thousands of kilometers from where I was, a little girl sat down and wrote this letter to me. She took a moment to think about me, a complete stranger. Needless to say, the Disney stickers were the ones that stole my heart.

I was feeling something that no conversations on Facebook could ever replace. It was not about efficiency this time, it was about finding a friend. A true friend. A friend somewhere in the world who is genuinely interested in what you feel, in what you are going through and who is willing to help however he/she can. I am glad I got that letter. It could have gone to anyone who could care less. But it came to my letter box, and I think it happened for a reason. It reestablished my faith in humankind as I started to believe in the genuineness of people. A Facebook/Skype conversation could never achieve that feat.

Unfortunately, I never got the occasion to reply to the little girl. I felt really bad for some time but then I realized that she probably sent multiple letters to other people since the good thing about the website is that we never run out of people to send letters to.

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I want people to realize that we need to maintain that art in a world that is becoming paperless. We focus too much on efficiency at the expense of individuality. Things have become easy, but at what price? Letter-writing is an art that has allowed people in despair to clutch letters to their chest whenever they felt lonely. A man who is ready to take his life uses Facebook as a way to say goodbye to friends and family and that night he ends up sleeping with a stack of letters tucked beneath his pillow, scripted by people who were there for him when.

The mere fact that somebody would even just sit down  and pull out a piece of paper and think about someone the whole way through, with an intention that is so much harder to unearth when the browsers are up and the Iphone is pinning and we’ve got six conversations rolling in at once, that is an art form that does not fall down to a life that gets faster no matter how many social networks we might join. We still clutch closely those letters to our chest, to the words that speak louder than loud, when we turn pages into pallets to say the things that we have needed to say, the words that we have needed to write to sisters and brothers and even to strangers for far too long.

M.C.A.L

The Friendly Enemy

“Its funny how sometimes the people you’d take a bullet for, are the ones behind the trigger.”

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I think we all, at some point of our lives, encountered the experience of the Friendly Enemy.

Some people call them hypocrites, fakers, two-faced, Judas, turncoats, best friends. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who believed that it wasn’t nearly possible for a friend to be backstabbing.

My story begins like any other naive teenager who looked for her identity in this world that suddenly appears to be too big, too scary. We suddenly feel the need of an anchor, someone to be our ally and confess in them all of our dirty little secrets, feel like they matter, like we matter. I trusted wholly, became even emotionally and socially dependent, on that one anchor. And it ends up being a typical story of the backstabbing friend who changes drastically in the time span of a year. Then slowly, you learn things that the friend did behind your back, that the friend said behind your back during the time when you’d give up anything for them.

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It’s not a sad story when you realize that you’re stronger from that experience. Of course, you feel stupid for having trusted them but at that time I guess they were actually genuine. With time people just reveal who they are, and who they are going to be the rest of their lives. That’s what adolescence is meant for: finding yourself. And I’m glad I grew up right. At least, I think I did. We never really find ourselves and I’m sure that hypocrite hasn’t found herself yet, at least I hope for her. But still, our choices make us who we are. Our actions make us who we are. So, if you choose to strip yourself in front of a webcam while the crush of your ‘best friend’ is eagerly scrutinizing every inch of your naked body, that only makes you an easy hussy with a serious lack of self-esteem. I’m not sorry.

Friendly Enemies come back to you like parasites. When they see that their actions brought them nothing but regret and loneliness they come back to the people they hurt with a smile as if they did nothing wrong, thinking that the more genuine their smile appears, the easier they’ll be accepted back. The thing is, we’re not all as easy as they think we are.

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Friendly enemies do not care about you. They just care about being listened, surrounded, admired. They proudly say that they do not need anyone. They’re like bees, going from flower to flower, taking away their pollen (in this case: information) and put that pollen in another gullible flower.

Knowledge is power. And Friendly Enemies know that very well. They acquire the maximum of information from the maximum of people and know that knowing about those people mean that they have an influence, a control over their actions. They know people depend on them.

Friendly Enemies like criticizing people above all. You may feel privileged at times, but keep in mind that if they are able to talk sh*t on people, they are very much able to talk sh*t about you. I want to make an appeal to all those girls and boys and hermaphrodites out there who trust someone deeply: THE ONLY ONE YOU CAN TRUST ENTIRELY IS YOURSELF. You may trust some people a lot, but never, ever, ever do it 100%. 99.9% is okay. You never know who may turn out being untrustworthy.

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Fortunately, there’s that wonderful thing called Karma 🙂

Friendly Enemies often do not last long in a group of friends, because eventually the group will realize that there’s a hypocrite lurking around, judging, talking behind people’s back to the same people they talked about, behind their back. The most gratifying thing is seeing them alone. I know I sound mean, but after all they did, I just have to be satisfied.

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The world isn’t perfect, the people even less.

Nevertheless, despite the existence of Friendly Enemies, I think we all should focus on the bright side of things. There ARE true friends out there, and it isn’t your fault if you happen to fall on the wrong ones. Eventually you’ll find someone who’ll be worth your secrets, your confidence, your affection and even love. People are not bad, they just choose to be. And you are smart if you make smart choices. Friends are wonderful. They are another crazy, smarter, incredible, sensible version of you.

Friendly enemies may be horrible to people, but they may be hypocrites because of reasons we do not know. Maybe they are just depressed, lonely or have issues at home. Some of them may feel like they do not fit and are scared of completely trusting someone, so they’d rather have people trust them and then they hurt them before being hurt themselves. Justifying their actions is not a good thing, i know, but well, I can’t help but hope that people are not as bad as they seem to be. Just like people are not as good as they seem to be.

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Nevertheless,

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there is a balance in everything, the only thing that makes a difference is the choice that you make.

Peace out.

M.C.A.L