fcuk teh stars
Dream. Believe. Survive. Three superficial words that have spawned an ocean of dry souls thirsting for the blinding light of stardom.
Waging for another shot at popularity, the backbones of the reality television show—or pseudo-reality television show for this matter— have returned to the land of the living dead. These very same organizers are perhaps the very epitome of dogmatism and popular belief in the strictest sense. They claim that they were able to create a whole sky of stars when in fact all it did was to blanket the heavens with a parody of an entire galaxy, eventually hiding from our vision the real stars. They’re turning foolishness into a heroic act, one that pretends to salvage innocent minds from the dregs of the world. It’s as if we owe them the expanse of the universe. These are fucking metaphors alright, but hell with it. Hesitant and handicapped minds would not be getting much of the gist.
It is ironic how people admire artificial stars molded from an obsolete and misshapen casket when all along they were looking at false icons wearing masks of shiny filth that luster-out an appalling grimace for the critical mind. The carnival of faces makes me fart my ass off, and raise my finger as a sort of a gesture right after the climax so as to further pin my utter disbelief.
I strongly despise the fatal vision of such a blind system, of how wretched souls imitate what they cannot even seem to understand, of how they make numb clowns out of themselves, of how such an absurd and distorted perspective do not seem to alarm the people, of how this crude fashion of parading flesh before the altar of the Utopia does not seem to choke our stream of consciousness; of how many hopeless dreams have passionately embraced the invisible promise of fame and fortune—the killer myth that has deceived and murdered gullible minds.
I am raising my finger as a grand salute to the success of the show. It has done such a good job at containing the minds of the people in a single jar, jamming them altogether like gelatin, moving to the command of those who have a grip on the bottle. I am raising my finger as a symbol for my unsuppressed wildfire, like a toast to the grandeur of the program, for carving magnificent dung out of bare flesh and blood, like a sculpture shoved right in the middle of nowhere exuding a wonderful smell.
Breathe it like oxygen sifting through the tunnels of your lungs and then tell me if it does not stink at all. If it does, then, my friend, welcome to the real world.
I say these things not out of envy for I do not envy mere social constructs, hallucinations caused by an addictive social drug, seeking to bury hapless budding seeds beneath a shallow grave nestled among the soils where madness is for all eternity. I do not envy these for they are not even worth the envy. It’s just that I pity those who try to target the stars when all along they already belong to the same sky. Fucking metaphors. But who gives a damn. The stars are all fucked-up now.
