Waiting for my ice coffee at a market somewhere in Cambodia… two men on a motorbike pass by, in between them a crocodile, head in a rice bag, tail waving in the wind… a soldier with his AK47 on his bag spoting my ink, nearly drives into a food stall, everyone laughing, not because of the AK47… and finally I forget my change – who hinks about change when it comes to crocodiles and soldiers – and the seller is chasing after me to hand over. This is my Cambodia. I hope it will survive me.
On same days, at night, when roads turn into blades, crossing at junctions into a Cambodian version of Russian roulette, when I shouldn´t steer any vehicle anymore, when I ride home on my loyal not scarless motorbike, only in my head visions of accidents taking place, real time, or just what will happen turning around the handlebars now, hearing the plastic cracking, metal clawing into the tarseal, my flesh skinned down to battered bones – and I drive faster to feel more comfortable.
The prison is located a couple of miles outside of the money festering tourist town of Siem Reap, which hosts million of people from all over the globe to visit the astonishing temples of Angkor. I visit my friend who is in custody and will remain, for six months, which is normal procedure, before his case goes to court. He was caught drug-handed. Unluckily only him, with the whole stash of his boss. He is a good kid. A smart kid. He is my friend. Before I decided to pay him a visit, I confronted myself emotionally and with the risk this could ignite. He is my friend since I am in this country. He is my brother. I took him under my wings. And he took me under the roof of his shack, under the bits and pieces what others would call nothing, but what is all what is his. His tuk tuk. His freedom. His fight every single day, for money, for food, for a place to sleep, a box of beer to forget. But he didnt want to forget. After doing his social service like thousand of other kids, of a generation which parents survived the Khmer Rouge, on the lawless paddy fields of this landrobbing state of affair and in the streets of the promising capital, begging for money, for a chance, not even an opportunity, ending up in one of the hundreds of shady NGOs, victimised and stigmatised by white supremacy and ignorance, being taken care of at least with the essentials, food and health care and knowing in english the difference between an apple and a banana, so after fighting through one of a typical childhood, being a grown up when in other countries students throw love letters in their face during school lesson, making a living with his tuk tuk, earning income for his family, for his two brothers, going through the same shit, for his parents, his mother, who is fighting to keep the ruins in place, for his father, a reformed alcoholic, whose broken virility and pride is only the peak of the shitberg, being in love with a woman, which requests wealth or high debts to get married, therewith not loving, exactly being in love only, opening the love letter, masturbating, spending some dollars for a prostitute, drinking but not leaning your head against your woman´s chest and knowing hope. All this and more. And the fact resisting every day the temptation of easy money, quick money, just for one more time, just to pay the rent for the last month. Everyone has a friend who knows someones or he his someone.
I kicked him out. I closed my wings. After providing him work and an opportunity, after trying to make him understand, what it will take to get himself out of this hell of a life, after making him understand that I am his friend but also his boss, because I give him the fucking money and I have to earn it too and if he doesnt do his fucking job and lies in my face there is no money and no partnership, and him loosing his face, and him hiding his balls behind a lost face, didnt make a friendship more possible to preserve. Because also being a friend, a brother means helping out no matter what. Giving money no matter if it is better to burn becasue it will not do anything good, not even the only thing which money can, help to build. And not help just to destruct, deconstruct the rest of hope and drown it in a traumatic, pathological frustration, self-pittiness – which sounds so wrong in that context, and surrender – which only makes me angry, surrender, to these human monsters, who are the only aliens in this world, capitalists, fascists, rascists, we have many words for them, but assholes also fulfills the definition perfectly. So my friend started to gamble. Again. He lost his tuk tuk, drunk. So he started to take drugs, to forget and to give up any hope, because hope is a most painful feeling when you know it is only for the sake of having something left in your life. Meth to be specific. Easy to get here, supereasy. Like any other drug, from alcohol to heroin, keeps your people silent and your pockets fairly heavy loaded, for more power, more until everything is taken – and then what. In his case you go to fucking prison. He started dealing. Also easy, no interview, nobody will ask you the difference between apple and banana. And you are a gangster, far better than hope.
I heard about his situation one month ago. At this time he was already in prison for 3 months. His family had not my phone number. But they also knew I was the one who freezed his income. Who failed teaching him the consequences of decisions, if you fucking like it or not but they are there and I give you second chances one by one, but you keep fucking it up. You tell me what you want to do, and you dont do it. You lie to me. I dont do you a favor draggin you along like others for the last years. Dragging because you dont walk behind, next or you dont run upfront. You are tired of life. You are mid twenties but you lived a life already. You want to be rewarded, coming that far. You have all my respect and anger my friend, why I tell you, nobody gives a shit about you. Not your government, which everyone knows, and not only your people, everyone and nobody gives a shit but a dollar for it. Not your nongovernmental organisation, because they are paying not the government only to have it easier, being less watched, and more money in their own pockets. To them employing students, serving later the hospitality industry, or manpower manufacturing for the First World makes a difference, they truly believe they have an impact, they truly think at the end of the day, taken all the dirty hands aside, there are still hands on the table which benefit. You will not have to expect anything from anyone in this world. Stand the fuck up and try better, I will help you, I will show you how you can apply their greed and selfishness and use them instead of them using you.
So I did my speech. I am not looking for an explaination or making an atonement for. I dont feel guilty – besides the immanent guilt of being human. But anger, endless anger, that I am only who I am and not a hero, and not a genius, who has this lives-changing idea. And it reminds me how fucked up this whole situation planet earth is.
I never went here to a prison. I heard stories. I only was sure I want to see my brother. I want to see his regrets. I want to see he gets it now, even too late for the next weeks, months, years, I had no idea. I had no idea if foreigners are allowed to visit and what it takes or how much it takes. I went to interview my friends father. I was invited to the merit transference ceremony of his father. The typical set up. A wall of croaky loudspeakers yelling khmer pop songs, people shouting at each other, smiling, peering, kids dancing, elders laughing, the tent, the big round tables, mostly red plastic chairs, sugary drinks, rice soup and after ABC or Black Panther, dark beer, horrible hang over. The family as always welcomed me with open arms. I love the mother. In her eyes rests so much kindness, in her smile safety. The father has all my respect. Messing with his family, loosing himself – never his family, pulling himself out back, back into precarious uncertainty. That demands some balls. He told me his son is ok. He also told me that both of his sons are ok. The younger one will be in prison for two more years. He is not yet full-aged, whatever that means in countries like that. He will find out for me when the best time for me is to go. And also the safest. I definetely cant go on my own. And I should go with a family member, best is parents of course. I heard from a friend there is a high risk you get marked going to prison, looking how I look like. Like a gangster. Police would follow me, assuming I am his boss or gang buddy. Our gang is the Buffalo Shit Riders. A joke. A game. An idea to create a bond between us brothers, apart from family and culture, where we can be just who we are, a bunch of shit boys, as my brother used to say. We are all far from being gangsters. You dont want still the police following you, because I am without doubt an easy target for lots of games and outcomes, and incomes. And I have to be aware that of all what I will provide him, food, medicine or books, the boss of the prison will take his cut, and of course the guards. So better not to show up with too much, the smaller the pieces, the more difficult to cut. The plan was to go the following sunday. Visiting hours are thursday to sunday whole day. I would go with the parents.
It will take me another two weeks to finally stand in front of the prison gates. With two of our brothers, their member name of the Buffalo Shit Riders, Mr Solution and Mr Lonely, who are not family, and my friend’s – who sits in prison, his name The Boss – (real) brother. – Using the word brother makes you realise how segregating names are. So finally one family member was with me or me with them. Didnt make me feel more safe, would have prefered the parents but who gives a fuck, me, the privileged white kid, sure not.
It´s thursday morning. Lots of families are here to deliver their sons, brothers, friends food, tooth brush and paste, medicine or simply their compassion and love. All of them are poor. Dressed in their best rags. Sundried skin. Red shaded eyes most of the men, from alcohol, high-proof home made booze which you can run an engine with. As soon we are getting closer to the crowd more eyes are on us. We spread like a wildfire. The police here is very different from the one you meet in town. Here they dont give a shit. I have here no bonus to poker with if I would need to. I am nervous. Tags of memories when I had my 24 hours in solitary confinement singing the Internationale, which fall silent for the remaining 23 hours, are crossing. My body remembers the relief when the massive gate of Stadelheim closed behind me. A feeling of happiness for a second. Until I look straight into another pair of eyes and a face full of curiosity and nearly no teeth smiling at me. It never makes me uncomfortable as far as they smile. The line is long. And there is no sign of more than the very necessary work efforts on the other side of the entry gate. I am holding my passport. Nobody speaks english. I try to figure out the process. We need to register sure. But usually there are always two ways I think. We are passing the line. We are also passing the blue painted metal entry gate slided open. Dont we have to – Dont worry brother. I heard that often already and it didnt always worked out the better way. But ok, what can I do anyway. So I stand and are watched. A guard with a AK47 around his neck approaches me. A smile. Then he drops his lips pointing with a head movement on my face and arms. On my tattoos. He says something in khmer. I only understand the number two. He has a scar above his left eyebrow. Not that this is something uncommon here, only the rich can afford a luxury like health or cosmetics, but combined with uniform, and mostly the AK47 gives that scar a specific face to it. Others are laughing. Making fun of people is in Cambodia something you do to have fun together, just for the fun, and barely disrespectful. My brothers laugh too as the laugh interrupted their conversation with another AK47 guy next to us. They are laughing about the crazy white man, Mr Lonely says. Yeah, I do laugh about that guy also a lot lately. And we laugh for a moment, realising right after where we are at. And I am less stressed now, which gives me a bit more control over this situation. Come with me brother. He grabs me by the arm and walks me outside. And I am back being nervous. What’s wrong? My brother smiles, or he always looks like smiling, the cheeky cat he is, and instructs me that the guards usually let you jump the line for a couple of dollars. What? Haha, I need to hold on not to laugh out loud. I mean we all know and we all have seen it in movies a hundred times, but this is that brutally contradictory I only can answer with cynicism. Ok, so how much? Doesnt matter, brother. – We are interrupted. One of the AK47 guys shows his head and still half of his AK47 behind the blue gate. Nice color combination I think, the weed green uniform, the sky blue metal, the black barrel. I cant take a picture anyway. My brother goes back inside. After ten second he is back, brother you have still five dollars? Now they say they can. – What? You mean they are ready for the bribe? Why do we do that anyway? – Look at you. Ok. Fair point. Maybe we should use the moment of surprise and just get the hell in there as quick as possible. So we pay. We receive two forms, basically our tickets. Each ticket hosts two people. Nobody asked for my name or my passport. We need to hand over our phones. The checkpoint right behind the gate looks more like an old full of rubbish bus stop. A fucked up concrete box with an old wooden table, behind an even older guard, looking grumpy at me, probably a bad hang over, and a young wardress, I have a bit a thing for women in uniform though she looks cute I don’t are to smile. On the floor lots of plastic and packaging material. Our two AK47 guys and in front of that a rickety camping table with phones bundled with rubber straps and a label with a number on it for the pick up after. Handoffs of bribes are usually not a big deal. Dont do it too public but also dont worry, its normal business, here and everywhere and money transfers itself anyway always. No body check. But the prettiness in uniform orders our shopping bags on the table. They open what can be opened. And they thrust us an empty plastic bottle into our hands, for the tooth paste, to squeeze in. And after that we are free to go, inside the prison.
Just to serve justice, I dare to make the statement that all inmates are serving because they are poor. Because they are surviving every day stucked in the bleeding drains of society. Gasping for life in their own deathblood. And they are there because they dont have enough money to pay off. Or their family cant take another loan from the bank or from some other shark, more money more profit more blood because there are enough of them, too much of them, too many begging hands, too many questions, too many lives. And questions can be burried in a country like Cambodia alive. Nobody listens to a mad man´s mouth shepherded with eyes wooed by fad in sheer desperation.
Finally inside. I realise I actually wasn’t scared at all or felt trapped. Whatever that means, against my expectations. – The buildings are painted mostly in blue with yellow edgings. None of them is higher than two floors. No watch tower, also havent recognized from outside. Prison breaks seem not to be a thing. The whole scenery looks more like a school yard. The daily reality for the inmates is behind that main building I am facing. Left side a small buddhist temple. I catch a glimpse of the prison visiting area. I am scared to see my brother. And angry, but more scared. I hope he is ok. A park right hand side, where we are not allowed to sit, the guards point us to the waiting area, which is right next to the gym area for the guards. Some punching bags. Two inmates dressed in orange trousers and yellow shirts, which identifies them as guard’s little helpers, a position for longterm stayers. Both young men, towsers, and obvious a number in the prison game as this is a privilege you have to deserve. And an opportunity. They bring the food to the prisoners. They are the first tipple, the first contribution. Until the package reaches our brother, half of it will be gone. In the corner of the waiting area a man with a huge stash of sweet milk on the table. Some Cola bottles and a cup with cigarettes – smoking allowed. He runs his small shop for the visitors. Mr Solution and Mr Lonely have a cigarette. I am too nervous and hang over.
The yellow helpers keep coming, back and forth, between main building and waiting area, delivering paper work, visitor tickets. A guard who looks like not happy at all with his position, receives, and announces shouting out loud the next group of visitors. We will be one of the last.
Mr Solution tells me about his baby. Five months fresh. He is not married. His income is 100$ a month. He is running a school close to Angkor Wat, for kids living around, which are mostly the annoying postcard seller daytime, evening they go to study, when father sticks his head in a box of beer and the mother is cleaning up after, and this not only literally. I know Mr Solution since I am in Cambodia. He was my introduction to this amazing and conflicting country. And as I am still here he did his job quite convincing. We had our fights. Which means, we had our learing curve of trust as well. Don’t trust me 100%, boss, ok, 90%, ok?! Once another brother told me. I laughed. Exactly why I trust him still today 120%, which makes him more trustworthy than most of the people I met. Never trust a man who is starving. Never trust a man who has nothing to loose. But why trust him anyway, just fucking help him! – Mr Solution offers me a cigarette, again. He feels bad only him smoking. He feels embarrassed. I like him embarrassed. He is far less cocky, and he smiles like a cheeky boy, who he still is. And now a father. His baby girl nearly died. His mother cant breast feed her sufficiently. They have not enough money to afford milk powder. At the sponsored hospitals founded and managed by foreign ventures, they provide free treatment, but the only thing the baby basically needs is milk powder, which they dont cover. Instead they keep coming back with a half dead baby in their trembling arms. A young couple, not married, him a buddhist, she is christian, in a country where you are traditionally not allowed to kiss before you are not at least engaged. Both of them surviving every day, also their own stupidity eventually. Both of them big hearted. Mr Solution asks why I am so skinny. – Because I gave you my last dollars to buy milk powder. We laugh about the truth, because reality is far more brutal. I know I can call him anytime and he will set water on fire to help me, he did before, saved my white stupid ass once. Another round of announcements. Not our turn. I watch a young couple on the other side of the yard. She brought him a bag full of fruits. They not really talk a lot. She is trying hard to avoid direct eye contact with him. He is trying even harder to get her to look at him. A prison romance, unconditional love or just a tough life lesson. Every single man here in prison is one hand less in the family earning income, but they be here at their charge, ruining their family, finally pushing them to pay them out, close to a breakdown. I think about my brother who is somewhere here, in a cell, or preparing for us. Does he know I am coming? Who cares. He will be embarrassed. He should be. I am so angry. Not with him. With the world. I always was at war with this world. And now its taking away my family, my family because they always treated me like a one of them. And somewhere deep down inside of me I am fighting my guilt, I can feel it flaring. But I also promised myself not to let protestant guilt cross this situation, hocking any next move. I can feel tears in my eyes. My brothers little brother grabs my arm, I instantly stand up, pulling him with me, expecting it’s our turn, ripped out of my self-punishment. – No not yet brother. I look at him. His eyes tear-filled. I sit back down with him and take his hand. – I am scared. It’s his first time he visits his brothers. He is now the man in the family. Stepping into his fathers shoes being a hair dresser. He was one of my students when I arrived here first. Talented in drawing. Interested in theater. The world will never see his real talented. He is drinking a lot recently. He also for sure smoked meth already. Maybe back in the days, but still within his reach. Poverty is wanted and not a coincidence, wanted and protected and maintained and managed by capital and its dirty governments only. And then it´s our turn.
We grab our bags. We are told to leave them here. They will be brought to the inmate after the visit. Before we enter the prison visiting area another, the first body check. Both of the guards at second sight realise me. White. Tattooed. Right here in this prison. One guard doing his job, eyes wide open, going over my ink and into my pockets, with half his attention, I bet he could have cut himself on a razor blade in my purse and he wouldn’t have had recognised the blood on his uniform. And for sure not the wardress, she is still dying laughing. I don’t give a shit. I can only think of the food they were wolfing down before and where it comes from, out of which food package for one of the kids here. Mabye not. Anger. Excitement. Nervousness. Fear. All at once.
The structure of this whole complex the more I discover it reminds me of a school building – we live our lives in different prisons. Wouldn’t surprise me if this was formerly an NGO and before they fucked off, which most of them do before they accidently really help, made a deal with the government, or they told them to wrap up, or it was never like that and they just dont know or exactly know how to build a prison. Who gives a bar behind. We pass room number one, empty. We reach number two, no number three, we are finally there. I am tunneling. The room divided in two parts, us and them, seperated from this massmurdering kids with a wire mesh, top to bottom, left to right. Rat tight. On our side whole families, kids in the front, missing their older brother. Parents. Elders a bit more in the back. Some of them look heart broken, others remember, a different time, when they were young and the Khmer Rouge took place – others will never enter a prison again. I only see bodies squeezing themselves against the mesh, hands, fingers, sticking through to catch a touch of the loved one. The smell reminds me of many schools and homes – which are more only shelters – I have been in Cambodia, in Asia. Damp and moldy. And dazzling noisy, one voices, hundreds of worries. I stay in the background. I feel suddenly so wrong here. The white guy. What the fuck am I doing here? I can’t push me through all these family members, to the mesh. I am only a friend, who misses his friend and hopes he can support him. Nobody is staring at me anymore. Or actually I dont discern anymore. I can here Mr Solution, but far away, maybe I will have an heart attack. This is an heart attack. Brother, are you ok? – What? Sure, of course, I am ok. Never felt more appreciation. I turn around to him, but before I can see his puzzled face, his arm passes my face, pointing on the other side of the mesh wire. – Can you see him, The Boss? Oh my buddha look at his teeth! And I can her is laugh. Mr Lonely and his brother are already talking to the younger one. It´s already his second time, why he will sit in here for a while. For drug offences depending not necessarily on the amount but on what kind of drug, you can get up to 7 years, regardless of anything, not even age. – Where?! – There! Can you see him now? I set my perception on fire, leaving the tunnel, realising once more where I am, who all these people are. – THERE! – And then I see him, my friend, my brother, The Boss and the guy who just fucked up. Who could sit now with me on my balcony and have a beer, and he would say no, because this is what he did, being smart and responsible, before everything changed. And I didn’t find him first of all because I just couldn’t, I just couldn’t recognise him. He is standing. Dressed in orange. Pale. Mr Solution will later say that he looks healthy, white skin color. – He is sick, brother, white is sick. – The Boss has seen me before. I can see the constituting shame. He smiles, from embarrassment, and I hope also happiness to see me. I smile back, I am happy to see him smile, that´s all. His teeth are blackish, I force myself to keep smiling. I want to hug him. I think I would cry, the mere though of it let me struggle with tears. I remember what my students taught me. – No teacher, don’t lie to us, we can see you are not happy today, so you should go back to your room, we don’t want to see you unhappy. In the beginning I felt amused about their cheekiness, but reflecting the white privileged guy coming over, for a purification or whyever people volunteer in awareness of helping mostly themselves, feeding their egos and facebook pages with selfies, bearing their emotional luxury called psychologic pattern or mental problem around the globe, in front of kids, who are more sensitive and grown up then most of them, you wonder why these white people are here, to mirror their miserable lifes in their self-absorbed tears. And I went home, back to the hotel, ven I didn’t actually feel bad at all, just not happy. And after school kids would come to my room and bring me a gift, fruits or just their presence, worrying about me. And The Boss would stand in the corner and laugh, because he already knew at this time how difficult it is for me to accept this very human gift called empathy, not only one way. Now we are here, in prison. He is. We both stand there. All the seats in front of us on both sides are blocked. And as always I hide my insecurity behind excessive politeness. – Go brother, talk to him. – But… Ok, I make my way through, nobody cares, we all sit in the same boat, or cell. I press my hand against the mesh. – Hello brother. – Hello, brother, thank you for coming. – I would have come earlier, but I didn’t know… you fucking idiot, you are too smart to be here! Sorry, I had to say that. Now ok. Are you ok, what a stupid question. – I know he doesn’t understand every word, too loud, too heavy suspense, and not important, he knows. – I am ok, brother, don’t worry. – Stop that bullshit, ok. I am here to help you. So tell me how you are. You don’t look good. You don’t eat? Food is not enough? We brought some stuff for both of you. – Food is pigfood brother, and always the same and not enough, but ok I don’t want to complain, it is good. – Ok. You stay with your brother in together and look after each other? – Meanwhile his younger brother is also part of our conversation, he is listening. His english is not very good. – Yes we do. – Only you in one cell? – No. maybe 20 people. And the room is small like here. – Which is probably enough for 20 bodies lying next to each other, shoulder on shoulder. – And we have to stay whole day in the cell. Can not go out. – No yard excercise or you can not work, do something. – No. – But you can read. You have to keep yourself busy, otherwise this fucks you up and I want you to come out of here stronger. – And I intend to ask him about educational programs like an apprenticeship, but I throw that thought straight to the wolves. – What can I bring you brother? We have now some food and toothbrush and paste with us, and I will come now more often, so tell me what you need, what makes you feel better. – He is thinking… I turn around, our three other brothers stand around us, silent, not happy. – Books maybe. – Ok. Sure. Something special you can not get here? – I have no books. – But there must be a library or something. – No. – What? What da fuck, seriously, so you sit whole day in your cell in this heat with 20 people and some fan. What da… I turn around again if there are any guards, not because I worry them listening, I just want to put my incredible anger on someones face and imagine how I crush it. – Don’t worry brother, it is my mistake, I know. – Of course it is, and no it doesn’t justify they treat you like… I gotta stop, otherwise I will burst into tears and flames in a second. – What books you like brother? Maybe textbooks? – Yes, Mindbooks… any of them. – Oh these are the ones about history right. – Yeah yeah exactly. – I remember the covers, Plato, Mao, Stalin, Hitler, ok I will buy and bring you next time. Anything else? Can you cook? Do you have access to stove or similar? Like most of Cambodians can build you out of a spoon and a thread a rocket, he has on top a decent training in electronics, he welds and all other sorts of shit, which I forgot right after graduating as you call the guy if you need it, because this is how it works, has to. – No, we can not cook. – But we brought you instant nnodle soups, you must have, ok I am not assuming anymore, but boiled water shouldn’t be a proplem, right? – We have, but you have to pay. – I was close to laugh out loud, behalf hoping that was a joke and behalf of despair. – What? How much? – 500 Rial. – But you can not work, how you suppose to pay? – They suck not only the outlaws, only because they are born poor as fuck, of society dry, no, also the families. – There is no way you can do any work? – No. – Or to get outside, walk, run, gym, I don’t know. For sure you can pay someone, right? – Yes, maybe 40$ and you can go and walk around, but only inside of prison. – 40$! For one day, a week, a month? – And I realise right away what a stupid question that is, in a country where nothing follows any principles, rules or humanity. A guy appears next to the two brothers, with a board and pen, being important. He tracks time and our time is slowly over. – If you need anything, let your parents know ok, I will bring next time or give it to them. Brother, please take care, both of you, take care of each other ok. Do you know how long you have to stay in here? – I will be at court maybe in around two months, then I know. – So you have no idea? – They told me maybe 3 years. – Three years! What the hell. – And I don’t want to say anything more. I am so suffused with anger and prepossessed with worries and guilt now, shame to be human, and not being able to do more than nothing. We say goodbye. I realise I try to squeeze my hand through the mesh, just to touch him, to connect. And we go. I turn around before I leave the visiting area. Both of them are already gone.
Are you ok? Mr Solution asks me. Better than him, so sure I am ok, but also I am not at all. He looks terrible. And this is such a fucked up place here. – We walk back to the waiting area to hand over the food packages. We know what will happen, but better a fly without wings than a dead fly. And then it just overwhelmed me. I turn around, I don’t want my brothers to see my tears and especially not any guard here. I have to hold on me that I don’t cry out. And I want to get out of here. We seem to be one of the last ones. Close to lunch. On the way to the gate Mr Boss brother came closer. – Thank you so much brother. – Don´t thank me, ok, I only did what any other friend would do. And I am always here for you ok, you have to be strong now, you are the man. Don’t do the same mistake please, I don’t wanna visit the three of you. – We both laugh softly. – How was it with your brother, did you talk? – No. And he tells me it was him who called the police when his brother was on his way to accept and embrace his criminal rise. But his brother didn’t see any other exit anymore, before he would pull down with him the whole family. – I only wanted to help, also him. But now he is not talking to me anymore. – I know what he will do tonight. Drink. Like The Boss did and many other kids who sit in here, escaping life, dreaming the dream of being a gangster, quick money, lots of money, lots of chicks, big cars and motorbikes, rap music and be the king, the king who sets themselve free, free of hard labor from an early age, free of not being free at all.
When I asked the father how much it is to pay them out he hesitated. The parents think beside their two sons deserve to be in prison, it is also a good time to make them think and to become a better person, it will teach them a lesson. Then he told me for one it should be around three thousand dollars. – The ransom is based on a screening of the wealth of the family. – We are poor. Maybe three. Maybe not. Maybe you pay and they want more, because we can pay, with money from bank of course.
There is no way I let him in there for three years and let them break him, and his hope, to have a family, a small house, a simple life, and maybe visit someday another country, and his. This is today beyond reach. And how my brothers use to say, tomorrow never come.
Crime is in most cases a result of poverty, an act of despair. Committing an violent act against nature – humanity is only a funny term like love, happiness or the right not to be wrong – on purpose, which they cover up with duty, which is the execution of judical power, more power more misery, more misery more power, is only disgusting and not even this expresses it close enough, and can’t be by any means justified. – So tell me, where is beauty in our world?
I see you soon, brother, and I am sorry. I am sorry this is your life, a life most of others would have fucked up already years ago. Fight, please!
Our world but planet earth even this is an oxymoron. We have grown up meanwhile and took over, battling every day to save us, then the planet, this inappropriate mother of a bitch. We die trying. We kill trying. We fail trying. We succeed facing a hell of a downfall. But before we want to feel good about having reached out that far. Blood spitting. Tear drying. We created a monster, thrown together by the unacceptable state of a deeper rooting sickness. A buried desire. And the monster called love. Love which is one of many metaphoric tales for helplessness, our hopelessness, because deep inside each of us know, we fucked up. Pretty bad. We love to escape and get closer to a feeling not to a thought. A thought about how I do look like today, what do I have to organize today, so tomorrow is enough space for organizing new stuff. System chow. We are ruminates and shit eaters and cannibals, animals, bad in a human fucked up way, lost in a mesh of artificial intelligence, which could be another monster, the web monster maybe. Term is misleading though. We rained on this planet like a plague and grown up in its fertile lab, secure and safe. All what we do is dissembowlement. For sure there is something which bonds us, maybe if only the instinctive urge of survival. So there is hope. Always will be. But this was and will never be enough. We are this weird species destroying slowly and tragically precipitate not just our world into ruin. Suck it dry and someday later when sand will wind through the skeleton of human memory and memorials and all other heritage, forgotten. So the question is very simple, are we part of this planet or alien. Our own enemy, who created the concept of enemism. We are a hilarious bunch of masochists and sodomists motherfucking fuckers. We think we think and even if we would think we should call it only thinking if it is for the sake of being. Doesn’t make us look much better than an institution of design monsters dressing the world up for its final chapter, whenever that last breath will be taken. But it will mean after nothing if we didn’t have saved ourselves from the slavery of humanity. We have to get naked again. I can’t tell more than everything has been said thousand over thousand of times. But we manage to look good, at least from one perspective of the burning men show, that is most important, where is the point if there is stage, no spotlight, no heroes, no rewards and new fuel for hope, market expansion and a positive look into the future, because this is all and only what we care about. How do I look like tomorrow, today is already the excuse not to care of. All these books full of human inventions and achievements. Record of the stumble we baptized evolution. Doesn’t seem we moving forward frequently. All these books full of theories and explicability. Models to break down, systems dead born at dawn, these are the drillbits to get closer to the unbearable question why we are here. As if there would be someday a satisfying answer for us. An answer which unites us, which let us kill for the right reasons, which does not speak right. But is right. How will that happened. We can only fail our own arrogance. The arrogance to assume some being gives a shit about us after that mess we established, maintain, spit and polish like as if it would be the last straw or the gold medal for being fuckups. I know this is alll negative. But that’s the problem. With you guys. You do only accept a portion of but with the same heart you ask for reality. For the real life. Real. Wow. Enlightenment. Everything enlightened. And we will finally sit enthroned, understood, finally this voyage will an end and everything can be justified in this moment of conquer and triumph. Fantastic space and time is lurking on our doorsteps. Do we really think we are close, like to a breakthrough or sort of? Or are we more scared and petrified of the fact that this world will at one point not take any more. And this floating planet will be collateral damage- who cares about the planet then right. Either way, you can’t be serious claiming this goes in its principles an ok way. But we sacrifice, we throw ourselves on this pile of death, meaningless death, because it meant everything to each of them. We don’t care. We are actors, some more talented than others, which fulfill dreams, dreams we didn’t dream but have been told us they are fucking awesome and makes you happy and much better than you feel right now because there could be always something better and in general I deserve better! What do we have to loose? And if we would loose, wouldn’t be that bad? I am personally deeply disappointed of our performance. There is nothing, nothing, and also not that thing of a sparkle of something good in everything, no nothing good about. How can we look letting it happen only to be afterwards terribly sorry about it, and touched and awaken and put to sleep again after the next commercial break. That’s fucking creepy. I am ashamed of us. And full of anger. Endless painful anger I only have for you, world. You deserve so much better. It could be so much better. Humans should have never developed the ability of thinking in abilities. Skills. Competition. Rivals. Friends. Enrichment. Networks, more networks. More connections to other abilities, to create an impact, if doesn’t change anything or not, but for the beauty of a payday. Paying out. Life is finally paying out. Walking tall. Standing bold, being in control, sharing the world how good life can be if you only enjoy and appreciate the simple things and work your ass off. That’s insane, i hope we know that now. We are watching a freaky live show of a downfall, feeling it, a substantial wrongness which makes everything else impeachable and terribly pitiful. We are watching. Nothing is in control. It’s only a question of protraction. Get something out of before that ship sinks. I write this without regret but only shame. Because I am nothing as we all are. We only can mean something if we start stopping this sick issue cold meaning. This is our fate and doom. And when I finished with this, I will turn back on my computer – I am writing on my iPhone7+ right now live, and watch a TV show and make myself believe that this is what I need. Right now. Instead of questioning why I think I believe this is what I need right now. In all it’s limitations needless to say. Of course I can not have what I really think I believe what I want, not only need, I need a lot of things but also I want lots of more. Of course I can be at the beach right now. I could be here and just be here. Which is also fine. If the internet connection is solid, I am down with that.
When is love exclusive, romantic, strong, deep – enough to create inherently boundaries, to be the only, the one and only, the deepest, the most precious, the love you would die for. And surrender for. Accept the tradeoffs and transgressions. To be ok, and sometimes even happy.
I am not build for happiness.
I am not build for love.
I am not build to love to be happy.
Or to be happy with what I love.
I am exhausted, tired to death to fight myself and not your loves and modesty. Which makes me less mature than a kid. But I prefer the way kids love anyway.
– How can you have to learn love?
I am tired of hurting you. I am tired of hurting myself. I am tired of this person who wants you, and not. I am revolting about this motherfucking constantly-fucking-himself fucker just for the sake of being not so easy to crack by the system, by human life, by humanity. That makes sense.
I am so tired of my high expectations, who I know are brutally ridiculous wastefull and I am dumb enough fail miserably at – the end of a revolt with no follower, no audience, not even an executive to drag me to jusice. My permament overanalyzing, just because someday I decided to appear smart. My punishment, my guilt, consequently feeling guilty of embarrassement, feeling guilty of feeling guilt, not being able to accept what is, reality or not, who the fuck cares, there is only one truth, the truth of insignificance, no pattern, no solution – right? Tired of feeling not understood, which makes me in your eyes only arrogant, which makes me only question you more, not your doubts but the doubts you don´t have. And finally feeling different like all of us, hence in a wrong way and all the other anxities in my life.
So who wants to make me happy!