FeroCity is home to a collection of monologs, articles and social commentary by EON, child of Time, whose view of humanity is scathing and uncompromising.

The Art of Telling the Truth Through More Inaccuracies

slave-modern-edition

‘Bar moments of rare openness, where I’m being both accurate and truthful, I’m always truthful and rarely accurate, describing reality by making things up, out of thin air. I enjoy adorning the phenomena and events of the world with exaggerations and spice — a salt-and-peppery buffet of rare and succulent tales — until everyone’s had their fill and no one can tell fact from fiction. Why? Because I’m a playful dreamweaver. I love conjuring shit, it’s one of the things that turn me on — one of the best things a person can do; one of the most productive, involved, unadulterated, committed, unremittingly astounding activities a sentient creature can engage in. Total performance, no waste of time. None of that fiddling around for an hour and breaking for five and then fiddling around for forty five and breaking for five-plus-ten, plus that phone call I needed to make and the one I needed to take, and the coffee I’ve been craving since my last cup of joe at my colleague’s office ten minutes ago where we spent nine minutes chit-chatting about work-plus-crap, and that conference call I had to attend to, and that daily call I had to respond to regarding the daily set of emergencies — honey, I can’t find anything to wear — honey, I’m feeling flustered — honey, I missed you and love you and I forgot to tell you to pick up a pack of Miller Lite on your way home. I love you!

If you pay close attention on sunny days, you may witness a flurry of souls tearing out of their jammed, sweaty bodies, screaming for release…

‘None of that shit in my routine. None of that filler material bulking up my day’s performance. What I do is a dishonest day’s work as lean as a long-distance runner, and it gives me a high. A clean perspective. None of the commute shit that drains people’s souls on the tarmac and train tracks where, if you pay close attention on sunny days, you may witness a flurry of souls tearing out of their jammed, sweaty bodies, screaming for release. No more spending minutes upon precious minutes inside a car, going places every day, zipping from here to there like a pinhead, I mean like a pinball, clocking up miles and half hours that turn into hours and days that turn into weeks and months and years and years — an entire lifetime spent inside a vehicle going places, always going places, arriving nowhere in particular.

‘None of that shit on my watch.

‘None of the white noise that blacks out my awareness.

‘None of the collective middens that litter the individual mind. None of the headaches that creep up inside a person’s skull after a string of meetings with men and women programmed to screw with you, who live on an entirely different plane and planet, yet somehow occupy space adjacent to you, sucking away your oxygen, consuming your resources, draining your mind of its grey and white matter, all the while smiling away, trying to convince you that their point of view is what it’s all about. They love opening their traps and yapping away, yap, yap, yap, yap, never worrying about what other people are saying. They’re content where they are, fixated on their obsessions, unaware of how they never grew out of their anal-retentive stage of crap. Severely constipated and stuck, stuck like a tanked up automobile with a banana shoved up its exhaust pipe, unable to start — isn’t it a great analogy? — all filled up with no place to go — get it? I don’t have to waste my time with such relics and call it work. I don’t have to pretend I just spent ten hours working when five of them were wasted on menial tasks, during which I needed a series of short breaks to decompress, constantly accumulating a little extra venom inside me, carrying it around with me, spewing it on the next person I see, on the wife, on the kids, on the cashier who didn’t bag my groceries right before giving me a look to top it all off, spewing her hard-earned venom back at me-plus-everyone-else in turn, because some other crap-heads fucked with her at work, at school, on the street and in the grocery store all day, all in the name of contributing to the great society we are so proud to belong to.

‘I don’t have to go through all this in my routine. I steer clear of the mess and make up stories in the privacy of my own universe, from day till night, uninterruptedly and without looking back, without adding my tanker-full of poison to the atmosphere every day. I made a promise to myself to do something uncommon, and here I am, making a dishonest living I’m proud of.

‘Of course this is all bullshit. The real story is that I’m every bit entangled in the daily webs and labyrinths that make life so utterly predictable and venom-driven. All that you see here, all the things you just read, are ashes in the eyes of those willing to believe that this life we lead can ever be made better. Everyone knows it can’t, because everyone knows they’re living up to their full potential, with no room for improvement.

Thus spake the man whose mind I infiltrated…

‘Tricky one, this last part. Sarcasm is a disorienting mechanism.

‘Maybe the words above are not just fibs. Maybe they’re more than that.

‘Clearly something doesn’t add up. Either I’m telling the truth about what I do and who I am, which means I can see the bigger picture from a detached point of view, able to trace out the screaming souls in the sun-drenched, traffic-jammed vehicles, or I’m lying, spinning, fibbing, pretending I’m not part of the global droll system when I clearly am, looking for ways out, expressing the anguish everyone is experiencing. Either way, the anguish is true. Not accurate. True.

‘That’s what matters.’

Thus spake the man whose mind I infiltrated, urging him to speak inaccurate spicy truths — and thus spake many like him on their way through the droll lives they lead. My aim is to disrupt humanity’s vainglorious operas, paving the way for a more intelligent intelligence.

My name is EON, child of Time, and I’m just getting started.

Intrigued? Watch this space for more.

From the collection of writings EON: THE ANGRY COMING OF AGE

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