24 May No One Can Save Me.
No One Can Save Me.
(A Monologue by Phill Ibsen )
Charles must be laughing in his grave. Laughing at the world, he left behind. The world he desperately warned us about, but no one listened. You never listened. Instead, like a flock of drunken sheep you chose to believe the lies. Just like everyone else.
“We are in this together.” Sound familiar?
Who are ‘we’ anyway? Do you know them? Do they know what you go through? Will you tell them, or should I?
Should I tell them about the sleepless nights you have questioned your own existence? How you desperately stare at your phone hoping for a call? Refreshing your feeds to see whether they have retweeted your comments, liked your post, what about that time you got involved in an argument with someone you barely knew? Should I tell them about your worry, when your creativity deserts you, and the unimaginable things you do to cling to the slightest remnants of it?
What happens when you have zero views on your status update?
Go ahead. Tell them.
Tell them about the times you wished you remained a child, because adulthood molested your innocence. Yet they glorify it as if it is a one-way ticket to salvation.
Tell them how you constantly jerk yourself off to sleep. Go ahead. Tell them.
Tell them about the times you have contemplated death. Sat on your bed and wrote a suicide note. Tell them about the times you have cut your wrist, and tried an overdose.
And for what!
To seek attention?
You think just because the world is a small village, you are a part of it? Do you seriously believe if you become melodramatic, the tectonic plates will shift to your direction?
Charles was right. He was right all along.
Loneliness is a lonely curse.
Everyone is busy surviving and no one gives a shit! About you. No one can save you.
The government cannot save you. Even with their theatrical politics, lock downs and restrictions, they cannot save you. They have your interests shoved deep in their black hearts, playing poker and chess. These people feed off your desperation. They all do. They are whoring pigs and all you do is cheer in mockery as they eat your soul.
The anemic philanthropist cannot save you, even if billion dollars were to be rented in your bank account. Just because they see you as guinea pigs does not make you part of their world. A world you desperately beg to belong.
The arrogant conglomerates, with their suits, fancy cars, and alluring ads cannot save you.
Even God cannot save you, he rather sit and watch, than give you a hand out. Why would he? You are not the reason why Jesus wept.
I have tried everything, but my insanity is incurable.
But, Yes, of course,
We are in this together. Connected until the signal is disrupted. Until you run low of data and airtime. Until your dark secrets get out, and Kenyans on Twitter rip off your humanity and make you burn your Sunday best. You hide from yourself but you show up for the world. The internet does not forget, but it forgets about you daily. Who controls it?
(Whispers) Who controls it?
I am tired.
My insecurity, a terrible illness, my loneliness feeds from it, and my sanity begs to leave.
When you get to the bottom of it, It’s just me, alone, with the voices in my head. Nothing to hold. No one to cling to. Not even the guy we murdered on the cross.
I am tired. I am tired of trying to figure it all out.
If there is one person who got this world wrapped around his fingers, was Charles. He saw it for what it truly is. A world jealous of itself. A world consuming itself.
Charles knew it. Survival for the fittest, he said.
A war between the rich and the poor.
The haves and the have nots.
The battle of the sane and the mockery of the insane.
He said it. Only the strong survives, and I am already left out.
Insanity is incurable.
Our insecurity, a terrible illness, and our loneliness feed from it. I cannot be saved.
I am afraid, that isolation only heightens it.
But we are in this together, right?
Written by Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.