The Popular Illness – So many men knocked on my door moaning over the pains they used to have. “I was ill, one of them said, I remember it very well! O how sick I used to be! Sick of this and that, of everything and nothing! Have I been struck by life’s ordinariness? It doesn’t matter, for I was ill and I remember it.” Today still, I cannot help but watch humanity soak itself into the sufferings long gone and the pains that it has yet to discover. Here I am, living in the Occidental world, the land on which one needs to suffer in order to exist. My blood boils when the words “rights” and “progress” get echoed from the young blokes’ lips. These are no more of a cure, but a new way of celebrating each and every symptom of the next societal plague instead. Rather than being doctors, the philosophers have become mere paramedics of morality. All around me, my brethren and my peers have replaced the words with groans and screams. Agonizing does not emerge from human nature anymore. It is instantaneously created as soon as a glimpse of guilt appears on each and every street corner. And when this scourge, tortured itself by the screams of its victims, begins to vanish from the surface of the Earth, no one else is pained by its disappearance. One may believe that happiness and peace only come back on Mankind’s doorstep in silence, despite our voices so loud and powerful.

About The Supremacy of Love – What are the oppressors doing to the dearest ideas of ours? They hammer these marble blocs, strive themselves like vultures toward the modern values, all of which will go down sooner or later in the history books. We ended here, in the middle of these utopic constructions subdued by a foolproof fear, with no kiss to alleviate ourselves and no words to hear each other. I feel you feverish and shaking in front of these newly improvised martyrs who scream at the top of their lungs, all of this despite your beaming look and gleeful stance. The sky sprinkled with grey clouds oversees the dancing of my eyes all over your hands, your face, and your smile so young, yet bleeding from the surreal atrocities of the world. “Absurd” is the word you slipped into my ear as you echoed your disgust in front of this sadistic delirium. So I remove myself from the sternness of this place and I grab my cynical coat hoping it would save you from your humanitarian revulsion and welcome you inside my arms, and among my fictional comfort. Hand in hand, we dodge the seriousness of every face and the astonishment of these living corpses in order to run away on this road made of clay towards this marble column – the only one that keeps resisting against the gunshots, hammers, and sickles. Each body’s love betrays the ideals of the world and reminds us the uselessness of each and every kind of belief. We are both stricken by deadly philosophical bullets as well as by traumatic and distanced dreads. Even though you think differently than me, I love you, and I couldn’t say why.