Corona virus. COVID-19. Fines for going outside. Sky Shield. Pornography blockage. No going out for non-essential travel.
I feel like a trapped specimen, like one of those insects I would drop into a transparent plastic box when I was younger. They usually died within a week, even if I did occasionally feed them water and food? But I don’t really remember what I fed them. I did like their shiny shells, some of them a lacquer black, others chrysalis green. They felt normal to the touch, a clean barrier between my fingers and the grotesque veiny madness of an insect body. I could touch these bugs. I couldn’t touch worms, or even a squashed cockroach oozing with syrupy froth from the mixture of its gastric juices and the soap mixture my ex-girlfriend used to kill it with. The death of these insects were normal, even justified. They were ugly, squirming, unblinking. More foreign than the metal robots we create with our silicon chips and copper transistors and lines of JAVA script. Maybe because those metal husks looked like us, and the insects don’t.
Identity. Identity crisis again. Depression? Anxiety? Existentialism? Nausea and absurdity? Emancipation, alienation, ideology? Tragedy and catharsis? Fuck. Just another sorry would do. I’m sorry. Sorry for this. Sorry for that. Sorry makes everything normal again. Normal, or suppressed resignation that we can’t do anything about our differences. But we are forced to live under this fucking social contract? Oh no! I can’t do this because of my identity being a citizen of XXX country so I must follow its rules. Ha! Maybe thats why we are all going mad. Our identities meticulously constructed like an electrical circuit before we take our first breath or come out of our mother’s vagina. All the screams of pain, convulsions, gasps of air, stretching skin and splurging crimson doesn’t mean anything really.
So much for tabula rasa, Locke. Thank you Descarte? Or more like Fuck You!
Staying Insane 