You're so connectable And you're so predictable, My hyper connected baby — My hyper deluded baby. And you're such a hype, And such not my type.
Hyper this, hyper that, Got all your buttons mapped out: Just press exit To quit; Don't press ‘Y’ To die, Just shift control Of your soul.
You're so connectable And you're so despicable, My hyper connected baby — My hyper secluded baby. And you're such a hype, And such not my Stipe.
Cyber this, cyber that, Got all your buttons mapped out: Just press exit To quit; Don't press ‘Y’ To die, Just shift control Of your soul.
Never mind the gap, Just fill it with crap. Rule out the small print, Don't get the hint.
Ignorance is bliss, War is peace, And you really get me pissed, My stuck in baby, Stuck inside the mist. You really can't be missed, My stuck in baby, Sucked into the bliss.
Divide and rule. This has always been the secret motto of this society. At all levels. Hence the sensitive issue of “gender” that should never be an issue at all, is drilled in us from early age as adults tell us how boys and girls are different and that what the first can do, the latter cannot. And those who ever happened to ask the natural question of why all got the same reply: “Because that's the way it is, period.”
I try to laugh about it, Cover it all up with lies. I try to laugh about it, Hiding the tears in my eyes 'Cause boys don't cry.
No need to point at religions, dogmas are everywhere. Cross any line and there you are, quickly labelled. Break natural complementarities and turn them into antagonisms. Drive to extremes and create imbalance. Disrupt the harmony within and impede reconnection. For at soul level there is no such thing as gender identity. There is no anima or animus. While there is much talk about what we women go through in this “man's world”, it turns out that males do feel equally bad in it. For there is definitely nothing human about this society as it rather incites men to become parodies of themselves. This has nothing to do with what we all strive for: be ourselves. Full human beings. Both unique and different and yet so alike. A good reason to make it a theme week.
Ey@el
Growing up as a man in the modern day, I grew up torn between following what society said I should do as a manly guy and what my intuitive spirit told me is right for me as a complete human being.
As a teen, I spent hours in the gym throwing around weights trying to look like the guys on the cover of the stack of Men’s Health magazines covering my bedroom. I worked to develop biceps and a six-pack, even though I knew those superficial characteristics wouldn’t ever equal real happiness.
As I grew older, I calmed down on the weights and learned that as hard as I work to chisel my muscles, this body is just a shell to the far more important spirit.
Problem-Reaction-Solution: There's fear in your eyes, It's taking hold of all your senses, Creating confusion, Activating the deception, Rising suspicion, Gnawing at your heart, Arousing strong feelings.
Fear is a poison, Rising to obsession. Terror Makes no sense at all. Panic attacks, Post-traumatic stress: The Controllers' ultimate weapon, The Dementors' final strategy.
Problem-Reaction-Solution: There is no mistake, Do not ask any questions. Get horrified, Activate the disconnection, Get numb, Embrace the illusion, Here and there, Completing the destruction.
Fear is a poison, Rising to obsession. Terror Makes no sense at all. Panic attacks, Post-traumatic stress: The Controllers' ultimate weapon, The Dementors' final strategy.
Today was the absolute worst day ever And don't try to convince me that There's something good in every day Because, when you take a closer look, This word is a pretty evil place. Even if Some goodness does shine through once in a while Satisfaction and happiness don't last. And it's not true that It's all in the mind and heart Because True happiness can be obtained Only if one's surroundings are good It's not true that good exists I'm sure you can agree that The reality Creates My attitude It's all beyond my control And you'll never in a million years hear me say that Today was a good day.
Ladies and gentlemen, let me escort you to my humble abode,” the Devil might say to you. No, after all you don't need him to show you the way! For only God moves in mysterious ways. However hard Sartre tried to demonstrate that “hell is other people”, a bit of unbiased soul-searching should allow you to agree that hell is mostly a private thing. Of some rare literary quality and remarkable insight for a rock musician just emerging from his teens at the time, the lyrics of this song conveniently popped into my mind as I was measuring my own suffering to the much worse circumstances some friends of mine are currently enduring. From the temporary relief such relativisation may bring while repressing what should actually be expressed and addressed instead, the bitter irony of how our ego and psyche have been conditioned by this pernicious system suddenly hit off full blast: never complain for there will always be someone worse off than you and never feel content either as there will always be someone better off. So yes indeed, hell is other people. Still everyone goes through their own private hell... alone. What the f***!
Ey@el
Closer than close, you see yourself, A mirrored image of what you wanted to be. As each day goes by a little more, You can't remember what it was you wanted anyway. The fingers feel the lines, They prod the space, Your ageing face, The face that once was so beautiful, Is still there but unrecognisable, Private hell.
The man who you once loved, Is bald and fat and seldom in, Working late as usual. Your interest has waned, you feel the strain. The bed springs snap on the occasions he lies upon you. Close your eyes and think of nothing but Private hell.
Think of Emma, wonder what she's doing, Her husband Terry, and your grandchildren. Think of Edward, who's still at college, You send him letters, which he doesn't acknowledge. Cause he don't care, They don't care. Cause they're all going through their own Private hell.
The morning slips away in a Valium haze, And catalogues, and numerous cups of coffee. In the afternoon, the weekly food, Is put in bags as you float off Down the high street The shop windows reflect, Play a nameless host, To a closet ghost A picture of your fantasy, A victim of your misery and Private hell.
Alone at 6 o'clock, you drop a cup, You see it smash, inside you crack, You can't go on, but you sweep it up. Safe at last inside your private hell! Sanity at last inside your private hell!
FR
