The Freedom of Expression
We live in a society, where orthodoxy is valued more than religion. It’s convenient. We crave convenience.
If we all go to Plastic Beach to collect our plastic brains, go to Clare’s, to buy our plastic uniform, go to school to develop a plastic soul, we will all be turned out perfect, plastic people with a perfect, plastic packaging to be injected into the plastic processor that ejects and rejects us like food. If we follow the leaders of WWII, the alcoholics, psychopaths and murderous obsessive compulsives, we can burn in the ovens, we can be herded into gas chambers like cattle, shaven, sterilized, shorn. We can work, buy, consume, die. Live happily and die blindly, because the lies we’ve been told and the contrived clones we’ve become, have been set firmly, stiffly, rigidly on a conveyer belt, to be wheeled into the Lobotomy Room, where we’re analyzed, scrutinized, re-organised, de-moralised, psycho-marginalised, lobotomised, de-hippocampused, terminated and exterminated.
Sometimes, when I was little, I’d stand outside that Lobotomy Room and listen the freakish noises that escaped the cracks between the steel doors; the screams, the twist of rubber, the metal, the crunch of bone, the splatter of blood and the eyes. I could hear the frying sound; the sizzle, like hamburgers in McDonald’s, discharged, wrapped and ready; the necks of their souls collared and tagged, colour-coded and tight; tight enough to suffocate, loose enough for rationed breath. I remember, how, hours later, they would emerge, first the patient, a line of blood still visible across the forehead and behind them, the moustached face with a metre stick, the dinosaur-lipped blonde with a notepad, the parents, noses bundled in handkerchiefs and then the fat guy in the suit with a rather ostentatious gold medal draped about his shoulders that always made me think he were some generous, benevolent man, who had performed some outstandingly selfless acts for the sake of the human race; some hero, who could actually imagine another alternative to our predicament; put the hyper kids on Ritalin, anti-depress the depressed and mould all the rest. That was it; a plastic, processed, packaged nation, greasy, straight and ketchupped as chips, addressed to Everyone, The World, The Universe, The Lie. It was perfect. It was convenient.
If we continue to treat eachother like cattle, it will not be long before the farmers slaughter us for meat. If we continue to slander, it will not be long before we lose our sentiment. And when we lose our sentiment, what will we be then? The artist’s soul will shriek its last mournful cry within the depths of dysfunction, before melting into oblivion, where its body will be mechanically electrocuted into an elation, of sorts, that involves no self. The dream is life after death, but the reality is death after life. If heaven and hell do, in fact, exist, it would be in the passions of our hearts, not so much in a residing existence outside our bodies. The fact that we’re trapped in our own skin, might suggest some responsibility for the sandwiches we chomp and likewise, for the values we hold. Stifling someone’s muse is like sticking needles into the eyes of an artist, or baptizing your child in cocaine and calling it “Prances”. It’s like growing a set of shit-crusts around your lips. Frankly, it’s unnecessary. We should all exult in the exuberance of our own verbosity; pronounce mouthfuls of logorrhoea in our daily intervals of life. Eject a clear thought, unpunctured by the children chanting TV jingles. Why? Because it’s beautiful. And if, for one moment, we can escape the horrors of humanity that patronise us to buy soda, buy soda, BUY SODA, we might just be able to save a hungry child in Africa, not so much through che-chingeling charities, but through the thought. First we consume the rain forest, then we consume each other and it won’t be long before we all just explode, popping plastic particles all around the membrane of our remaining souls, if we still have souls by then, that is. It is important to give the gifts of human treasure, before we’re so genetically modified out of our minds that the only thing that drives us to live, is convenience. It’s kind of sad, pathetic even, that humanity is on the brink of being quelled out of its own being. Sooner or later, we’ll all be dependent on life-support screens, we’ll be grown and reared in greenhouse gases and the brightness we one wore around our eyes will physically deteriorate, leaving above or heads, the white strip lights , that sap at our already flat energy, with someone screaming in our faces and ramming our mistakes down our throats, as if we don’t already know that what we’ve become is something so internally wrong, that our expressions are falling apart like dry make-up.
In the meantime, we will be spasticated, elasticated consumers, inhaling lies like lithium, too dumb to denounce the Ministry of Brainwashery, too fickle to rise above our own blotch, too artificially happy to utter a mutter against the ultimate cutter; the two pairs of knives that each pair of eyes combine to make society. We’ll be baked like buns, pumped with sugar canes and a little cherry on top, if we’re good. And all will be fine, as long as the doctor continues to stuff our brains with cotton and we continue to dig those L’Oreàl ads, because we are just so unconditionally “worth it.”
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
areudirty
stormborns
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
