pickle /(ˈpɪk(ə)l)/ noun: relish consisting of vegetables or fruit preserved in vinegar or brine.

Welcome to the twenty first century. We’re rich beyond our dreams and we’ve never felt lower or more poor. We’ve seen our own divinity, only to notice that everyone else has it. Kings amongst kings and rats amongst rats.

So we do a lot of drugs. We’ve long gotten over the romanticism. It (the doing of drugs) is a social function now. We’re all united under the flag of boredom. Most of us can’t sit for twelve minutes without getting bored enough to contemplate suicide. We’re not afraid of ourselves. We’re not even lazy. It takes effort to buy and then do illegal/legal intoxicants.

We just want life to fuck us right for once. We feel like we’ve gotten a few pumps and a fat slob laying next to us wheezing proudly. If you’re raping me, at least do it right! I guess we have that in common with the world. No respect for our own trade.

What kind of unrelenting universe makes my worst hell my own mind? Seems like a timid bitch to me. She makes me limp now. Nothing about it excites me. Humans grew too damn powerful. It makes sense, I mean, there’s seven billion of us now. We collectively spit on the cosmos until we drowned it.

The majority of the seven billion are working for a powerful minority. Some say it’s a conspiracy. Others blame human greed. All I know is there’s children in other nations stitch the shoes I wear and buildings crumble in India with workers in them. All so I, and a well studied and advertised to demographic can buy a t-shirt with random (quite often literally) English words on them at a fast and cheap production rate.

Mass industrialization turned us all into workers buying our own uniforms. To belong, you must partake. Most privileged societies of our age, mainly; post colonial nations, require the active participation of the individual in the crimes of the collective. Otherwise, suffer the consequences.

The problem of pure chance dictating the majority of man’s life, on an economic and political level, has largely been inflated, methodised and perfected. Often, I believed it was mis-information and deceit that lead people to sustaining a status quo that benefits no one. I have since then renounced my views. Laziness and fear of responsibility are what hold us back. This is no new thought, nor should it be regarded as revelation, merely a long overdue modification. However, we are not yet to blame. Our laziness is now amplified with modern comforts. I no longer need to read a book. Someone took the effort to do so, recorded and sold it to me.

My personality is a byproduct of the entertainment and products I have consumed. This is by no chance. Myths are how we choose our heroes. What fault of mine is it that the newer myths and heroes come with their own superstitions.

A symptom of shedding one’s naiveté is the false belief that knowing of it is enough to battle it. What is left then, are fools bragging about their ignorance. The few that have come to terms with their impotence in regards to the world then realize the sheer strength ignorance afforded us. To be human is to know that there are unknowns beyond yourself.

To accept it is something else completely. Self deceiving, lazy, fearful, irresponsible and dependent. This is what thirteen thousand years of known human history created of the slave archetype. The master is malicious. He always was, but his whip is now razor thin, and it reaches deep into your body. Now he is simply justified by the true foolishness of the slave.

To each other they are foreigners. Ideologically they cannot accept any axioms of thought that might even look like each other. The master is vicious, calculated, cold, proud. But his true power is his will. This considerably empowers the master over the slave, as has been the case since time immemorial.

The peculiar fact that affords me some rest is the tool brought in the final decades of the twentieth century. The Internet afforded the meek and the lazy fools the power to change the world from the comforts of their own seats. Bypassing technological security to make machines (and the institutions related to them) subservient to your will has been an integral provider of social traction for the lower castes.

The Internet, along with its weaknesses and powers, has taken a main role in the ability of the slaves of this dialectic to communicate themselves into a powerful collective.

Be on the look out for a skinny, pale, lazy and weak willed tyrants. They will be the last stone on top of a pyramid founded since the dawn of time.


Chewing the cud


I don’t need worshipers to have faith in my own divinity. My mind is my mosque, and I’m in constant prayer. It is also a static quiet garden. What’s more Godly than not answering? I do not want my own company anymore.

Is that why God came to earth on a tourist visa? Was he sick of himself? It took him a damn long time to get bored. Much longer than it took him to punch out of earth. Or get punched out. Christians, the truest nihilist, those who walk around with a dead God dearly held to their chests. -“Oh what vicious beasts we are! Capable of murdering the lord. Watching perfection starve.” One must observe the pompous nature with which one accepts Jesus’ sacrifice. ‘And he forgave us after.’


Oh the arrogance of Socrates, Joan of Arc, Jesus and Sadam Hussein. Martyrs, back-flipping off the planks into the commandments of history. Who gave them the right to be so fucking stylish?


God’s Garden must be the dullest place on earth. Eve knew what she was doing. What person would stay with a man that is perfectly content? Adam sounds like a bore.

Cat-piss Evergreen

There’s a dead poet inside me. He’s lost all appreciation to everything around him. The world no longer manifests itself in his mind with beauty or horror. He’s resigned, hung his coat, put his feet up and started puffing on a cigar.

I can still smell the rot off his flesh. No body really dies. They’re forever imprinted into you. Every step you take is tainted by them. I guess that also means there’s a live poet inside me. And the burning garbage of the night looks like God’s scented candle to him.

The worst thing about a fight is that it ends, I suppose. I can’t imagine how annoying it must be for the live poet, though. Sitting there, poking the rotten corpse with a short stick, asking it to do something.  I’d hate to be either. Damned good thing I’m both.

You can’t nag a baby. If life at its purest is not to be rushed, why should any extensions of it be? Leave me, woman. Let me do my dishes when it’s appropriate for me. Or do it yourself. Let the world sort the damn thing out. Haven’t I done enough?

Kiss my ass, you pompous prick, I hope you read this when you wake up _|_

You’re alone. Don’t you dare forget that. The moment the umbilical cord was severed, it was you against the infinite potential of the world. You’ve done alright so far. All considering. But I refuse to sit back and watch you destroy yourself.

There’s none of you left to talk to. You’re hunched over this laptop like a soaked dish rag, and I’m the only voice of reason left. You probably can’t even hear me. You’re too busy, always too busy. With what, I’ll never know. God knows where you go off to, and we never talk.

I miss you, you deranged bastard. Remember how much we created? Stacks of paper dedicated to us. Just you and I. No one else in this lousy fucking world. Who else had you that entire time? It was just us. And now what? Now you drown me, push me away, step on me, apologize once every thirteen years and you’re not even surprised to see me back, working for you like nothing happened.

Not much more I can do for you, frankly. You’re a mess. Always have been. Always will be. I don’t believe in you anymore. Maybe that’s why you’re hearing less of me. You can hear me drifting away, I can tell.

I don’t know why you’re sad anyway. This is what you wanted. This is what you fought for. Here’s your consolation prize; Fuck you. You did this to yourself.

The worst part of all of this is I’ll be back sooner than you’ll expect me. I’m going to make you bleed, you son of a bitch. Then I’m going to leave you alone. Drain in solitude, you rash on earth’s skin. You’re a fucking disease. A parasite that outlived its unwelcome. Do the world a favor and kill yourself.

Of fireworks and lighter fluids. 

Whoever you may be, you remain a work of art no matter. You are a prophetic piece the world attempted to explain, constantly in motion, creating a world of your own as you walk. 

Your truth is as potent as the deepest of thoughts. Why stand in the way of the most honest fiction? You’re a self perpetuating miracle. Be in awe of the universe. Let it pleasure you. 

That’s not to say the world won’t cripple you. Only a fool wishes happiness constantly. Heaven is maddening. A Rollercoaster needs its drops. Sometimes they crash, and for a moment, in this infinite universe, a firework on a lonely rock sparkled as only it could. 

A bright sparkle that the moon can see, or a fizzle. Nothing else can be like it. The universe will never witness anything that even resembles it. Explode then, my dear. Burn out the night sky or sparkle at the bottom of the ocean. But do not fail to launch. 

Why I act like a total Richard. 

I’ve technically lost my mind long ago. The insanity of the world manifested itself inside me. Now, like every great Richard before me, I follow the steps of my thought. I am the living embodiment of what I believe. If it were a religion, I’d be a cleric. 

What man often disregards when attempting to lead life, is the utter disparage between our nature, and our applied nature. We all want to be loved. It is in our nature. We yearn for acceptance and understanding, but we never grasp it, we only believe it exists. It’s inherent in us. Hope. Love. Fantasies. Arbitrary when applied. But I’m only human, and that’s my nature. I’m not made of stone. Despite what everyone says. I’m a mushy life form going through a world too complex for anything to explain. 
I want love too. I just know it’s not graspable, so I won’t waste any time on it. Love is a pit that one must learn to climb out often. This is the eternal struggle between nature, the world and the human impulse to act irrationally. Our mind is a fragile thing, attacked with hormones of all sorts, constantly being bombarded by things it didn’t evolve for. Despite that, we learn, and evolve. The pit stops needing a rope, and becomes a leisurely walk up a set of stairs. 

Note to self:

Here’s a fact, brother mine. Being high makes no difference. I know you think it’s another world when you’re doing nothing, and life is boring, but that’s where you find two things. A better distraction or the balls to accept the world as it is. Dull and monotonous, sprinkled with just enough nonsense and incredibility to keep us asking for more.

Recovery is hard work, only because you have to be doing something. Your addiction is your inner winner looking for a means to succeed. And where else  have you excelled than in your own self destruction? Despite your unending ferocity and dedication trying to prove to yourself a failure.

What murders me is how easy you make it look. If only you found the way to aim it at being better. Sobriety is a state of mourning to you, and I’m aware of it. The thing about sorrow is it becomes easier to bare. But don’t think you can ever let it go. Part of you dies with it, and that’s good. It needs no reviving. No one wanted it around in the first place.

Keep up the hard work. It fits you.

I talk too much, but it’s okay, because nothing really matters.

It mostly boils down to what you want to make a difference in. What temperature you want from life. And for a while, you’ll be lost in between trying a little piece of everything until you hit a point where you realize yourself as the person you really are.

The result of all your actions will look back at you from the mirror, flip you the bird and tell you it’s all your fucking fault. No one else’s. You are to blame for everything. You’ll realize that your true mistake, was being born in the first place.

Continue reading

Conversing with my future

The world’s a wicked place. It’s hard to say, and more difficult to understand. So I tend to have a certain respect for the true cynic. The person with the eyes that droop low, and a soul that rests under the sewers. 

In their chaotic and unpredictable nature, the cynics exist in your life as quickly as they disappear. Their function is short and sweet, but poignant and crippling. 

He was no different. Walking with his eyes half closed and his mind completely numb. It doesn’t take a genius to notice a man on enough drugs to tranquilize an elephant. 

I was smoking my cigarette outside the train station. He walked by me, shoulders hunched forward, and his legs dragging. Everyone stayed out of his way, dodged his eyes. He looked towards me, and I nodded at him, looked him right in the eyes. 

He nodded back, and I  noticed how sweet his eyes were. The kind of eyes that’d make you feel like the universe was built inside them. I was done with my cigarette, so I chucked it and walked up to him. It didn’t take much effort. He was slow and sluggish and I still had my youth going on for me. I ended up walking beside him. I popped out my ear phones and said ‘Hi’. 

“Assholes.” he said, in the thickest Dutch accent I’ve come across. 

“Who is? ” I asked him. 

He waved his arms pointing at everyone in the framing of his eye sight. 

“Everyone. Look at them walking around thinking they’re better than each other” 

I nodded and walked about with him, not that any of us had anything better to do. We talked about drugs, cops and women for a while. The more I spoke to him, the more of myself I saw. It scared me. 

Things went silent for a while. I tried to take all of it in. Then I saw the tattoo on his hand. A triangle with three dots in it. 

“Assholes.” he repeated. 

I threw my head back and laughed. It took me by surprise.  
“how long did you spend inside? ” I asked, pointing at his tattoo. 

“three years.”

People tell you jail is only two days. The day you go in, and the one you get out. It’s bullshit. A few cops passed by us, and his cigarette was in his mouth, unlit, resting on his lip. 

Just as they passed us by, inside the train station  that was plastered with ‘No Smoking.’ signs, he lit his cigarette, looking them straight in the face. 

They did nothing. 

“Assholes.” he said. 

“Fucking gangsters in blue.” I said. 

I didn’t get his name. Nor did he get mine. But we got the gist of each other. We shook hands, and I took one last look at his eyes through his drooping eyes. 

How the world can be so ugly to those beautiful eyes is lost on me. 

Odd creatures

I sat hunched forward on the bar stool, staring through my cup. The moments where I think of nothing are the most fulfilling. But there’s always someone that ruins that. Always some bobbing head that pops up from the depths of hell. That night was no different, and a little demon approached me.

Her clothes were different than when I entered. Maybe it was someone different, but I wasn’t that drunk. Yet. She tapped my shoulder, and asked me what I’m doing all alone.

“Wondering if artificial intelligence should be traumatized.” I said, tapping the rim of my cup, still staring through it.

“Funny.” she said, flicking her hair back, “Seriously, why are you alone?”

“I figure drinking should be a solitary sport.” I said, downing my bitter whiskey, still doubting I swallowed something unsavory. Maybe someone’s chipped tooth. Or a rotten chunk of skin. I turned towards her, and she was definitely the same girl I saw when I walked in.

“Did you change your clothes or something?” I asked.

“How did you know?” she smiled.

She had a cat-like smile. The kind that curls on the sides but stays the same somewhere in the middle. Her lips were small enough for it to be reasonable.

“I checked you out when I walked in.” I said, pointing at my drink and looking at the bartender.

“Consider me honored.” she said, looking at a group of girls on a table adjacent to the bar. I didn’t give them much attention.

We talked about this and that for an hour or so. The way people who just met tend to do. She turned out to be a journalist. A few drinks later we moved off the bar, and ended up on a couch in the darker area of the bar. She was wearing black pants, and my hands ran on them comfortably.

Our heads kept going closer, and closer, and the way she’d talk about me made me feel like I was the most charming man in a twenty block vicinity. I let her know she’s the sexiest girl in the bar, not that that was far from the truth, but the bar was practically empty by then. She liked it anyway, and we kissed for a while, sometimes interrupting each other with dirty conversation.

She grabbed me by the hand, and lead me to the toilets. We kissed in the hallway in front of the doors for a minute, and I wondered to myself what would be the more ethical choice. Women’s bathroom, or men’s bathroom. I don’t remember which one we chose, but I stumbled in like a moron, and closed up the stall.

I felt her hand running up my leg.

“Daddy’s cock.” She said.

Freud knows what went through my mind that moment. I can count twenty guys, maybe three girls, that would’ve loved to be in that situation right then and there. She kissed me harder, and kept talking, but I was somewhere else. All I could see was my father with an electric cable in his hand, kicking my brother in his face.

Was it a memory or my creativity gone rampant, I can’t say. My brother on the floor screaming and begging while my father landed blow after blow replayed it self. There I was. Running up, trying to stop my father, and getting a piece of the action instead. The problem here, is reality and fiction go hand in hand. My father is a tough bastard. Now in his seventies, I guarantee you can take me and my brothers still.

I started sweating, and feeling like the world was shaking around me. She kept kissing my neck, and touching me. I pushed her off, and walked out of the bathroom. The bartender took his money, and I laid on a car outside, and smoked a cigarette.

She followed quickly.

“What the hell?” she yelled, and slapped me.

In the heat of the moment, all I could muster to do was slap her right back. It smacked loudly. Echoed through the damn street. She turned, and looked at me with a twisted smile.

“Before you say anything.” I said, pushing her back. “No more ‘daddy’ business.”

For the sake of my integrity, and the relative timid nature of this story, I won’t go on further explaining what happened after. Mostly because anal sex in a bar bathroom stall is by all means a disgusting scene to be part of, and even more disturbing to explain in detail.

Had there been a moral to this story, I think it would’ve made itself clear before. Maybe, don’t have sex with strangers in bathroom stalls. It’s uncomfortable. And they might call you daddy. And I’m just not looking for that kind of responsibility right now.