Detachment

In an argument between you and an average person, who's winning; the average person, or the average person?

Human nature is widely built on the very ethos of insistence, a belief so strong that one might find more success teaching a cow Mandarin than to hear a simple apology from the opposing side.

To us, life is nothing but a badly arranged game of debate, saliva spewing through the gates of the teeth, fingers being pointed at each other, eyes red with agony, but one must prevail. There are no draws, only victors in this brutal game of cat and mouse. Nothing is saved from the absolute massacre one tends to inflict in those unfortunate scenarios; one secret you confided to the other just to feel a bit less vulnerable and insecure? Boom, good luck being faced with abridged versions of the very same thing you were rambling and groaning about the previous evening. Sorries, apparently, are a sign of losing the debate so badly you get booed off the stage with jeers and laughs. Humanity is so entitled to winning they forget losses are what make a man, a man.

Don't share your secrets with anyone, ever. Fight your inner demons by yourself; by finding a shoulder to lay on you're basically being the chopping piece for a polished blade of a guillotine that has yet to feel any effects of the French Renaissance. Why bother yourself through all this anguish? The ammunition that you give someone by confiding your lowest of lows is something so potent you might as well sit on the top of a rocket propelling towards the vastness of space; the rocket does not shout at you for being snobbish (I hope).

Humanity is doomed, it was always doomed. Any hope for humanity is long lost in the thick smoke bellowing through the chimneys; the glass was never supposed to half-full. Be the change that you want to see in the world, but sadly that will not be making much change, as you're a part of a very well-oiled machine. To thrive you must adapt, and to adapt you must survive first. Be the cog of the machine; if not, you'll be discarded as some wasted piece of junk who never mattered anyways.

A man's engine is fueled by his ego. He won't hear a bad word about himself, for he is the Lord Almighty himself. Any form of remark might be considered so sacrilegious, you would be lucky to not be tried at the stake for crimes against the Church. A person is so convinced he is never on the wrong side of a coin, that he finds himself minting a coin with two heads than to have a fair chance of winning or losing. The bloodlust never wears; after one hard-fought victory, the man immediately moves on to greener pastures in search of plumper prey.

The seeds of trust have been uprooted away due to the floods that bring with it sorrow and tears. The Lord, conditional that he is, shows no mercy in times of vulnerability; houses containing memories are now just ruins of a past that used to be. The Almighty has traded away his material connections for a temporary benefit, a benefit that makes him the God and someone else the mortal. As he looks on at the damage he has caused, he wonders whether it was worth all that had happened. More a feeling of shame than remorse. What's the use of any aid when you've caused the Armageddon? When the Sun shines on the scorched earth, will you hear the birds chirp or the ground writhe in pain?

Congrats on your victory, dear victor. May this victory in a battle that was never there soothe your gashes that you wish to hide from the world that pry their eyes on you. In your eternal hunt for the elixir of validation, may the flame of ego burn tall and far, and may the lamp of reassurance burn bright in a world that is completely vacuous of it.

As for the loser, you were a loser, so no one really cares. Rot.