Are You Still Blogging?

A former student of mine – now a Junior – asked this of me the other day whilst I invaded his class in a blatant display of ego-mongering. I was taken aback, for, as we know, I deny deny deny the existence of this blog. The tag line, after all, is “a blog for mad people by a madman.” Certainly isn’t apropos for a teacher to be guiding his charges (former and current) toward a blog of mad rants and ramblings of a drunkard trying to make sense of a world long lost to oblivion.

Well, fuck.

Empty Walls has been on repeat for the better part of an hour, I reckon, for – in times of dead reckoning – such tunes find comfort within my distended breast. Repetition, wh’ther it be poetry, politics, or people, is important to consider.

We repeat things for emphasis.

And, comrades, I daresay I sorely lack in the repetition of my writings.

Why do we write?

I ask this of my charges time and again, and, time and again, I am oft met with a blank stare and mouths agape as if I had denied the existence of Christ Himself.

Might as well kick a fuckin’ puppy across the room to emphasize my point – at least the puppy will have an emotional response to the questions posited.

Indeed, comrade reader, why do we write?

Why; isn’t it obvious?

  • To express ourselves lest we shoot ourselves in the fucking head;
  • To find comfort in a world that gives nary a shit about our personal sufferings and tribulations;
  • To give meaning to what we consider Life;
  • To justify our existence;
  • To put this (points to head) and this (points to heart) out on a page.

That last point, comrade reader, is the most important. I challenge you otherwise.

We write – blog, pen letters, scribble upon desks, send Snaps – because we attempt to put ourselves out there, to allow others to see the real Us without judgement or scorn.

And if met with judgement and scorn: fuck them.

Who are they to dictate you?

We write, comrade reader, because if we don’t, we’ll bottle this shit up inside us until it festers – like a gangrenous wound – until it consumes us as the cancer of Silence.

Silence is the ultimate killer. At least when I smoke and drink myself into a public stupor, folks are aware. At least I am aware.

But no one knows you’ve cancer until you let them.

We write, comrade reader, to create the Reality we need when we need it. The Shadows of the Fire may burn upon our Cave wall, but we are not restricted to such False Truths when we realize we command our own destiny.

Your path has merged with the Truth. And yet you refuse to see. It’s easy to be afraid. To be deceived. To be a sheep. Be aware. Question them. Question yourself.

Step out of your goddamned Cave and realize the world is not a series of shadows cast by Others, but a beautiful thing made malleable in your capable craft.

We – damned and dearest reader – have escaped our own Caves long ago; for my students, you have exited your Cave, yet have you realized the significance of this event?

Have you seen your reflection upon the water?

Relax, damn you. – Stop. Breathe. Think.

Stop.

Breathe.

Think.

Is that not the point of self-expression? Have I taught you nothing?

I know who I am – the question, then, rests upon the laurels of your own victory: who are you?

You are not merely a high school student struggling to survive: that is trivial, banal, and basic (in the lingua franca).

You are not merely a number seeking to earn a grade: that is misguided and a blatant Lie.

You are not merely a warm body sucking up my valuable oxygen: you found this – what prevents you from finding more?

Comrades. Comrades! The only thing preventing us from achieving greatness lies within our own breasts.

How dare you consider suicide. – how. fucking. dare. you.

How dare you consider giving up. – how. fucking. dare. you.

How dare you consider mediocrity. – how. fucking. dare. you.

Goombas – my dearest, goddamned Goombas – you magnificent bastards; you holders of the Keys; you brilliant minds; you Potential –

Love yourself.

Is that so difficult?

Of course you’re tired; who isn’t? Life isn’t a fucking carousel where you get to ride the magical fucking pony of your choice; nay, ne’er. It is far from that.

Life is a self-righteous cunt should you allow it. The question, then, comrade reader, comrade student, is if you’ll allow it.

Are you to allow this rape to occur?

Or shall you rise to the challenge and declare – with all manner of gusto and moxy – that you’re better than four years of legislated prison?

If you see only harrowing experiences within these walls, I fear, comrade student, you’ve missed the point entirely. I fear you’ve not learned a single thing.

Yet – just yet! – if you realize this is temporary (as all Pain is) then you’re destined for greatness. If you realize this experience is merely thus – an experience – then you’re ahead of the game.

How dare you think otherwise.

how. fucking. dare. you.

Look beyond your walls.

Look beyond those goddamn walls.

Look beyond yourself.

Look beyond that Dark Stream.

Realize, comrade reader, that this isn’t about you. It ne’er was.

The only thing stopping you from Life is yourself.

Don’t you fucking forget that. Don’t you dare fucking forget that.

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Author: Bruno

A blog for mad people by a madman.

One thought on “Are You Still Blogging?”

  1. Hey Bruno –

    It was great to see you at the gathering. Thank you for helping with the cabaret.

    Let me know if there is anything I can ever help/assist you with.

    Miriam

    Sent by Miriam S. Gallet

    >

    Like

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