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SESSION 1

Shrews, careless gods and mortadella ice cream

Client: C. L. S. Age: 20

Today is Thursday.

Afternoon.

We are just getting the general stuff out of the way.

Is that the paper? Okay. You haven't written anything. That's okay.

Yes, if you feel like it, you can talk about it. Let us try to focus on the fundamentals, the axioms so to speak.

I've been thinking.

Yeah, but this time I did what you told me. And I asked questions. I thought about them.

Sometimes you ask the world what's the point of everything. The point of moving.

People always say you have to get off your ass and start moving if you want to achieve anything. If shit happens they tell you to keep moving until it gets better. Bad people will move on and leave you alone, eventually, supposedly. Time will move on as well to make all misery go away. As if it's all just a bad dream.

They say.

But I wonder what all this moving actually does in the end. What does it truly accomplish?

We're always ending up at the same place. We took a detour to walk through some more shit and somewhere along the way convinced ourselves that the place we end up at is something better now. That we've learned something while stumbling around. Have grown.

They say.

And what's the point of growing? You're not getting anymore sophisticated or healthier or more beautiful. Your brain begins to deteriorate when you hit 22 or so. Your body starts shriveling up from that point on. It's just a matter of how long you can ignore your own decay, until you finally feel everything falling apart.

After 22 you're not growing anymore. You're just getting old. You're growing dead.

And people try to ignore that with a vividness that's only matched by some pedo drooling over the pictures of some little boy. They're fetishizing life and youth and big dreams and being smart and all that.

It doesn't mean much once they've noticed how the world really works. From the top down. From the heavens to the grave.

We're all walking downhill.

And you ask: What's the point of trying?

Whatever you do will be dust in ten years' time.

What's the point of pleasing people, of wanting something better in life, of wishing and hoping, yet only the stench of mediocrity and failure and old, sick and dead people lingers everywhere you go. You cannot run away from it.

What's the point of being nice, of smiling back, of taking that filthy pay check, the alms you slave away for, for sweaty, fat, ugly, useless and stupid assholes that forget about your face as soon as you leave their office?

What's the point of waiting at a red traffic light, of paying taxes, of being nice to children, of keeping off the lawn, of holding the door open for rats and scum?

It's all just useless, mindless, ritualistic fetishes that are the glue, the tar that's supposed to keep this society together.

You ask these things as if you expect the world to answer, but it never does.

And then you ask yourself if it would actually be much better to just tell those greasy bastards with their fake smiles to fuck off. To spit and piss on the lawn, to slam that door into this bitch's stupid face, to kick these fucky brats and break their tiny arms.

Why wouldn't you actually?

Because society doesn't like that? Because it's not conducive to how this world is supposed to work?

The world that doesn't care? That doesn't answer? That wants you to stay in line, pay your rent, watch that football game until you get cancer and eventually die lying in your own piss?

And as soon as you tell people that you've had enough of this shit, enough of them, when you open your mouth and say what you think, they really get mad, because they don't like that.

They don't like their tiny hobbies being called bullshit or their aspirations being called a joke or their faces just being called ugly.

Yeah, tell them that they're ugly. Be honest to them. Because, you know, honesty has become real rare these days.

Everyone should get the respect of being told that he's a fat, ugly loser, that his stupid friends will either die one day or stop caring and just leave him, that his parents will lie rotting under his feet some years from now and that everything he wanted in life is a joke and that everything he loves will fade away until there's nothing left but him in his death bed, thinking about all this life, all this shit he can no longer wish away, no longer pretend that he's just growing, just getting better, getting somewhere.

No, it will just end there and he'll know it. And he'll hate it and he'll hate it if you're honest to him about it.

And you ask him what's the point, but he has no idea either. He hasn't even thought about that, naturally.

And then you realize that there's nothing you need to do for this world, because it's all bullshit, meaningless drivel of moralistic scum and little shrews toiling and wasting away one day after the other.

And you start to think about the alternative.

What would be a good solution for this world if you don't have to watch your step and keep your mouth shut and tell yourself that there's light at the end of the tunnel?

And maybe you'll think that such a convoluted mess calls for something simple. Something elegant, really.

And you see that a bit of gasoline and a lighter can be much more honest than any prick that runs into you on the streets.

They can be true companions even and you can almost hear them cry for salvation. They cry for cleansing. To be burnt down, to be wasted completely.

The whole world should go up in flames, the whole universe even. A glorious, never ending light of annihilation, of mutilation, of pain, of people being slit open, torn to pieces, thrown away and pissed on, of screams and despair and death and realization so pure and so honest that it makes you cry.

That's no just catharsis. It's apotheosis.

When everything comes apart you'll finally see the true meaning of it all. All the lies and the uselessness of life, stripped away and you then see your way back home.

Back onto the top of the mountain where you once were born. Where the air is still clean and the ashes fill the valleys.

Where you belong. After all this time of having been enslaved by the world.

You can only truly be who you want to be if everything's dead. If there's no life, no people, no opinions, no gazes, no judgment, no claims, no lies.

Then you can be everything you want to be. Because you're no longer part of this world that doesn't want you to be anything but an actor playing out a cliché of yourself.

You're not fighting clichés. You're not standing up against stereotypes. No, you are the cliché. You are the stereotype. You are the joke the universe tells about life and love and success and in the end you're just gone when you're bedded in dust.

The joke's on you and you should learn to laugh about it and act like it.

People wish for misery and despair. They glorify them, but they don't understand them. They don't get the joke. If they understood it, they wouldn't just talk about disgusting shit at lunch break or watch horrors on TV. No, if they understood they'd take a shotgun, go out and massacre as many people as possible. They'd live out that vivid fetish and stop pretending to be kind and good people anymore, who'd only talk about it, only watch it, but surely would never do it.

They'd stop lying and just accept the horror.

And I've come to the conclusion that asking questions is completely useless. It's stupid, because they won't be answered.

There's no goal you can reach by asking them. There's no wisdom waiting if you've just managed to ask the right question. There's nothing.

Questions only exist to avert people's attention from reality. They exist to trick people, ideally to manipulate them and make them give you money.

Like your papers that ask questions. People fill them out and pay you for having the "luxury" of being allowed to fill them out.

And then you talk about what they just wrote down and they'll give you some more money for this as well.

If people are faced with misery and horror they stand in the dark and ask "why". They ask "how" and "what should I do?".

Because they've been told to do that.

And they ignore that they're laughed at by the mere fundamentals of existence.

There's no why or how or what. There's only suffering. They suffer until they die. They fight against it and tell themselves that there'll be good times again. That they'll be good and healthy again.

And then, surprise, they die anyway.

That's disgusting. This behavior. This ignorance.

And I realized that I've always had the answer. I've known the solution long before having even engaged in asking questions.

Having asked questions was a futile exercise. It averted my attention from what I've always know.

That everything should just burn. That everything cries for death and wishes for it so deeply, so profoundly.

And I ask you: What's your opinion about it all? What do you have to say?

My thoughts are clear. My philosophy is sound. There's no other train of thought or philosophy you could possibly put against mine without looking like a fool.

Without looking like one of these ignorant shrews that are shuffling through the streets right in front of this building.

I am not here to tell you about philosophy. I don't tell you what to think but I am trying to examine what you think and why you are thinking it.

That's a nice job. I wanna do that too.

Sitting in front of people and listening to them talk.

Would that make them feel better? To be listened to, because they're massive egomaniacs who love to be listened to?

But then I think I wouldn't be able to keep up doing that for long.

They'd just start to bore me and I'd start to think about how their faces look like under their skins. How the muscles move and the blood flows and the arteries and all that.

That's infinitely more interesting than having to listen to the words that come out of their voice boxes.

Maybe you're doing that too while listening to me. I think to some extent at least.

But you also need to listen to find out what's wrong with me and how to fix me. Because you'll get money for every problem you're able to scrape off my brain.

But you can't fix me, because I'm not broken. I work perfectly fine.

If I was broken I wouldn't be sitting here.

I'd stand at the counter of some shopping mall or I'd be selling smelly burgers to some fat fuck.

I'd shuffle home to my little decaying apartment, water my little decaying flowers, think about my little decaying dreams, go to bed, get up again and sell some more burgers.

That's sick. That's pure evil.

You can't even fathom how much this disgusts me. How much it upsets my soul and everything within.

No, the fact that I'm here shows that I'm doing quite well.

I am the one cogwheel that's still running in this giant, fucked-up, clogged-up machinery that tugs and tears on all its parts until they're dulled and useless.

And the funny thing is, if you have a broken machine with dust and rust everywhere, that single perfectly running cogwheel becomes the anomaly.

You just can't understand why it's still running, why it still has this will and power.

And I have will and power. I can do things other people wouldn't comprehend. They'd go mad if they even tried.

How long until I can leave?

Time is not important.

It is for me. How long?

Approximately fifteen minutes until the session is over.

Fifteen minutes then until you're satisfied and get your money.

And until Julius and Valentina are satisfied, because they can tell themselves that they've done something. Have done good.

It is not about your parents.

Damn right, it's not about them!

That means I'm deciding. What I want to talk about.

I just have to talk, right. Doesn't matter to you.

Well, I'd like to talk about something interesting then. Something that has always fascinated me.

I've thought about how the world would look like if there were gods like in the old stories.

Actually, the world would make much more sense if there were. I mean it's all so insane and in some way funny how this world works. Like some fucked-up gods laughing about everything going on down here.

It'd make perfect sense. They're shooting their load each time a whimpering idiot shoots himself.

The Wolf Clan had this really intriguing take on gods.

They said that gods used to be regular people a long time ago and through some event that always involves their death they basically transform into gods.

But being a god wasn't something pleasant. It was actually some form of universal punishment for a person who's brought about so much misery that he then had to be turned into an immortal creature that suffers for all eternity.

The gods of the Wolf Clan were described as terrible things.

They were completely detached from regular people's needs and worries.

They simply didn't care, because there was nothing they could do really. They were able to change the weather or make plants grow or strike people dead, sure, but what use does something petty like that have for an eternal, immortal, careless creature?

The gods were trapped in time and space, reliving the misery that made them gods over and over again.

Most of them would do things like creating diseases or pests or let meadows and forests rot.

And they weren't considered the evil ones yet.

Oh no, they were the "neutral" ones.

There were demons too and the difference between them and the gods was their outright will to bring about the most horrific events, to torture and kill people.

While the gods didn't really care the demons did.

And yet, despite of this ancient people worshipped the gods.

They asked them for stuff, but how exactly can you make a creature that doesn't give a shit provide you with something you wish for?

Well, the people thought they should honor a god and its suffering. They thought that reminding everyone that the gods are trapped in this universe just like every other creature is the best way of appeasing them.

Or the best way of not making them fucking angry at least, because you really don't want a god who usually doesn't give a damn to get mad at you.

You'd be fucked and it would be hilarious.

There's a play about some guy being part of a hunters' tribe who gets bewitched by the idea of sacrificing himself to a god.

The whole story is about how he tries to choose the "right" god and how he constructs a consistent plot and line of reasoning that ends up showing that his sacrifice isn't only possible but also the best thing that could happen in the universe.

I liked how he was able to basically remove all counter-arguments about the worth of life and emotional appeals or anything that could've convinced him to not do it.

I'm not going to explain it. You should read it.

It's called "The Winds Withheld".

I think it's been fifteen minutes.

I'm off to get some ice cream. There's a guy selling some with mortadella flavor down the street.

No, I don't need another paper.

I'll just tell you some more stories next time, okay. It's actually quite fun.

Judgment pending.

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© 2018, Kranich im Exil

::www.furaffinity.net/user/kranich-im-exil ::