This world is ultra violence (It’s personal)

Nothing new in the title of this article.

The world is ultra-violent.

And the more I think about it, the more I think that’s society is violent because it profits, financially, to the extra-rich.

« They’re busy fighting each others for crumbs, they don’t have time for fighting us. »

Our entertainment, musics, tv shows/News, movies, the internet, is fueled by blood. So we get depressed, low-key violent, and when a white guy in a suit and tie ask us to vote for him so this hell will stop, what do we do? We vote! And nothing really change culture wise, deep down, the mainstream culture have been infiltrated by violence. You need to dig out, by your owns, the artist who would show you, sing, write about something else than bloody murders, violence and sex.

And we’re so tired of all this hell affecting our brains that we just say « That’s how the world works. Can’t feel sorry for everyone if you want to live ».

As you’re reading those lines, there’s a famine going on in Ethiopia, we’re speaking about 22 million peoples, women, children and men of all ages dying of hunger. No doubt that this touch you, but you’ll move on with your life because there’s a certain violence in you own life that you have to deal with. Therefore, we all alone, fighting not with others for others, but for ourselves.

We, humans, have the unbelievable capacity to adapt to every situation. Today, we live in a ultra-violence one. The Corona brings some good things for humanity, solidarity for the essentials worker and medical staff. Today, as the virus seems to have lose it’s grip, we have forgotten about the essentials workers and the nurses and doctors on the frontlines. Hell, even our politicians, in France at least, seems to have forgotten all theirs promises. Nothing new there either.

In all that violence, we’ve learned that CEO earned and pocketed billions in theirs pockets while their worker didn’t saw a single penny added to their paycheck.

If we were mentally well, fit, first of all, the ultra-rich wouldn’t have taken this money in their pocket in the first place. But they did, if we weren’t mentally exhausted by the ultra-violence that occupy our consciousness and unconsciousness, those rich folks wouldn’t act like they do right now.

Just look at the 2008 financial crisis. Who paid for the trader’s greed ? You. The banks took your hard earned money to save themselves. They don’t care about you on a human level, you’re only a statistic, you are « how much money you earn ».

Money is becoming more and more digital. Credit card will soon become the only method of payment, therefore, the bank and their associates will have an eye on everything you’re buying. Along with tracking were, when, and how much.

Soon, the Chinese social credit will make it’s way in our democracy. It’s already starting with the carbon footprint. Carbon footprint is a term created by the biggest corporations to reject the responsibility of pollution and global warming to the individuals instead of them. Big corporations are responsible for more than 70% of emissions of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Global warming is caused mainly by those big corporations, but somehow, it is our fault…

But no, you are the problem. And you accept it because you’re tired and dazed.

The change could come, with real democracy, but we only vote a couple of time in a four or five years span. And we are ok with that apparently.

Shut up and work, obey, pay for the rich, die.

Jaskiers

Publicité

If It’s The Last Time

[Inspired by Red Dead Redemption 2 – Warning: Spoiler]

As I watch some wild boars devastating the grass at the far end of the forest, I stay here, wondering if smallpox do the same kind of mayhem in my lungs than those wild animals makes in the forest. It probably looks like that in there, like a tornado just have passed.

Coughing blood after every intense activity, seeing myself, my body, weakened, this is probably the end, or at least, this is very close to it.

What’s left of me? A child that die after three hours of being born. And a wife, well, a «should have been wife» that do everything to forget me, friends that I will leave in need, a father figure going mad and a country that is changing way, way too much and way too fast.

Everyone keep telling me that I am a good man, that there is a side of me that is kind but it’s being overshadowed by the evil side, the one that keep thinking and hanging on a lifestyle that doesn’t belong in this new era we are entering in.

What a life, I had a good run. What happen to me is payback for all the ill I’ve done. There is a justice after all. At least, It’s look like it. This is at the very moment that death is around the corner that I finally realise that I have spent my time chasing ghost. And I have left a pile of dreadful things along the way.

What matter to me was nature, the Wild West, the anarchy and the poison of every god damn man in this world, money!

Damn! Money can’t buy me new lungs!

I wish I could have spent more time with that old Native American, riding next to him to the top of the mountain where is used to meditate and think.

Thinking! I have forgotten how to think! Like a raging bull, I’ve been going through life without planning what was waiting for me at the end. And the crash is my illness.

It’s all about love life isn’t it? What’s make us truly happy, for real? Have you noticed how falling in love was the most incredible and powerful things you could experience? It’s… rejuvenating! It’s something that bound us all, human beings. Everything seems pale next to being in love.

We don’t necessarily do great things when we are in love either, but at least, we do it for the most beautiful reason.

I had the chance to love and to be loved. That was a short period of my life, but the happiest one.

Years have gone by so fast! So fast! I always knew I will die young or, at least, not old. I was afraid to be old. And now, I wish I had this opportunity to grow old. Even alone, you don’t need someone to be happy, really.

If I could choose, I would have been a rancher. For once in my life, being stable. Here comes the time when the body can’t travel or being on the run, he can’t handle it anymore.

I would have had horses, cattle, a dog and a cat.

I would smoke a cigar on my porch, drinking whisky as I watch the sun set. Until I die.

But this kind of death isn’t for me, sadly.

The boars are now gone.

And I’m going on my last ride.

I’ll miss nature.

Maybe the other side, if there is one, is ready to welcome me. I hope so at least. I hope whatever decide our faith over here will see the good side of me, if there is one.

Can’t even take one good last breath, I guess I’m punished now to rest peacefully later.

I hope. Some people say faith is more important than anything. If think not. Love is.

Hope keep us going and love give us a purpose and a meaning.

Goodbye.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 3

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

—

The need for a smoke came back stronger than ever before since he stopped smoking. He needed to blow off some steam.

Once again, he had to face this inner demon of temptation. After all, just one, to cool off. But this is the cliché excuse to get back to smoking.

He took a glass of water instead, risking drinking it from the sink, with those terrible drought that had been hitting California recently, there was a risk of infection drinking water from the tap. But, this was better to drink a potentially cancerous glass of liquid than to definitely inhale cancer right into his body.

He laid back in the bed, looking at the spot on the celling. He couldn’t see anymore animals in it. This was proof that his brain was tired.

Dosing off once again, he fell into a dream, a nightmare in fact.

He was back in the fancy hallway of the Monclar Hotel in Colorado. Alone, he could hear a scream, a women scream along with terrifying scritching noises.

The hallway was well lit by a big crystal chandelier hanging from the roof to a few inches above the floor. Jack T. was almost blinded by the flashing crystals lights marking his sight with purple spots on his retina.

He tried to yell his wife name, Clara, because the screams he could hear sounded like her voice. But the only sound coming out off his mouth was an animal like groaning. The more he tried to yell, the more the groaning was loud and disturbing. When he decided to put his hand in front of his eyes to stop the light from burning them, he realised that his hands had became those of a beast.

Long and thin fingers, with long and thick black nails, his skin was covered in dense black fur.

By reflex, he took a glance at his lower body part but nothing had changed.

He tried to move around, going up the set of stairs on his right, the one that leaded to his room. He moved pretty fast. Too fast even. He could not control his pace. When he finally managed to reach the top of the set of stairs, he took the direction of the corridor leading to his and his wife room. He ran so fast that he blew past the long corridor, pulverising the window of his bedroom, breaking the room’s window and ended up in the snow, outside of the hotel that suddenly exploded.

Jack woke up in sweat. Maybe because of the dream, but also because the TV was on fire. He got up of the bed, coughing from the poisonous fumes filling the room and ran to the door. Of course, it was locked. He remembered, for once, where he had put the hotel room key; on the TV stand. But the television and the stand where devoured by thick black and red flames. The key was definitely lost. He prompted himself to the window but he could not understand the mechanism for opening it. Why do hotel room as those complicated windows opening mechanism along with weird shower malfunctioning?

As he was thinking about this, he felt like writing it down on his notebook. His precious notebook! He didn’t really cared about his wallet and laptops nor his trousers. He didn’t want to have his precious notebook burn, with all these wisdom, thought and ideas going up in flames and destroyed forever, never to be recovered. Jack never trusted his memory, writers have a tendency to forget things pretty fast because they often think about the thousand of things they could write. Their brains are often on maximum overdrive, keeping them up at night, pushing them to daydream.

Even more interesting stuff that he had to write about on the pages of his beloved notebook that was just standing on the bedside table.

He quickly leaped next to the bed to pick it up. But the notebook was stuck, impossible to grab off the table, like it was glued to the wood.

The writer tried his best to lift it up, planting his nails on the woods, bleeding. The effort made him suffocate even more. He wouldn’t give up, nails were coming off the fingers, shards penetrating deeply in his fingertips.

He felt a hand on his shoulder yanking him.

He woke up, laying in his bed. The young hotel manager was seating next to him.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 2

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

—

A childish fear, he thought to himself.

He opened the door of his room. A smell of cigarette hit him directly. He stopped smoking two months ago and this smell will not help him forget his longing for a good smoke after the stress of the traveling. Thankfully, he had no cigarette in his pockets to taunt him even more.

The room had that uniform pale brown color, a two persons wide bed, a night stand with a phone, a lamp and an ashtrey. Facing the front bed, a TV stand with a top notch television and multiple drawers. A wardrobe next to the bed et next to it, a bathroom with a toilet. A picture perfect basic motel room.

He let down his luggage on to the floor and laid in bed, looking at the roof stained by years of smoking.

One of these spots looked like a rabbit.

Smoke stains are likes clouds, perfect pareidolia materials. He took out his notebook to write that thought down. The writer learned to write down every thing that inspired him directly as to not forget a good idea that could help him in his futur writing. He never really used the notes he putted down in his journal, it was more of a little obsession, just in case the inspiration decided to take a leave from him creative mind.

Curiosity pushed Jack to open the bed side drawer, see if there was a bible. It’s a curious thing to put a bible in hotel rooms he thought to himself. It was not the case in Europe, it was something typically American. Forcing God into your life, guiding the lost sheep back to the Lord’s herd. He wrote those lines down on his notebook before opening the drawer and discovering a tiny black leathered bible and a full pack of Camel cigarettes along with a lighter.

Torrence heartbeat increased for a bit. There were, in this drawer, God wisdom and the Devil sweet temptation.

He took the bible and opened it where the little strip of tissue served as a bookmark.

He read the first line that caught his eyes :

(Luke 22:40)
When He arrived at the place, He said to them, “Pray that you may not enter into temptation.”

He sighted, looked at the pack of cigarettes, took it, turned and smelled the odor of tobacco before putting it down like it was burning his finger.

Sometime, life work in mysterious ways, like God, but it also have frightening coincidences that make you question existence in its whole. Jack was in deep meditating state, wondering if life was nothing but a simulation, a cruel game, lead by a disturbed man.

He got back looking at the roof to discover that the rabbit looked like a bird now. He moved his head to see if it was a change in his position that made this metamorphosis but it wasn’t.

How strange is the thing controlling us. Why does it seem that sometime, he takes a particular interest in you for a moment and giving you the hardest, cruelest and strangest time of your life ?

Sleep started to ask for its due. Jack took off his trouser and his old leather jacket, rested his head on a pillow and started to dose off.

He started having one of those strange and scary dreams where you wake because you felt like falling off a cliff.

Jack raised up from his bed immediately. He remembered reading something about those kinds of terrific dreams. The brain dropped some kind of adrenaline’s type chemical in the body, because for a moment, he was thinking that the body was about to die, or something along those lines.

It marked, once more, that room with a dreadful feeling. Something was wrong here. After what happened back at the Monclar hotel back in Colorado, the writer knew that there was some strange and powerful power out off our understanding lingering in there. Only peoples who face those strange power know that you shouldn’t mess with those entities.

Jaskiers

Just Another Haunted Hotel Room Story – Part 1

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

—

Jack T. had landed in Los Angeles, California, at 3 AM from a red-eye flight from Seattle.

After renting a car, he drove south, toward San Diego, where he had a book signing session on the afternoon for his last work, « Travel With A King ». Not his proudest nor his masterpiece. It was a book with no soul, just for the money.

Since this incident in this fancy hotel in Colorado a couple of years ago, he didn’t felt that the writing mojo he used to have was still there. It disappeared in the fire, along with his favorite typewriter, that good old Adler, his loyal comrade since the beginning of his writing career had disappeared. He also lost his wife and little boy. They aren’t dead, they just don’t want to see him ever again since that dreadful day.

On the interstate 5, driving while Jim Morrison sang lyrics that matched the present moment about driving down a freeway after midnight, Jack felt the heavy weight of sleep affecting his eyelid, therefore his driving. He decided to not taunt the devil, and to stop at the first motel with available vacancy to catch a shower and sleep.

After passing the camp Peddleton, he arrived at Carlsbad where a motel with a view on the Pacific Ocean was available.

He parked his car and took a quick look at the hotel. It was a reflex of his job, he used to think, to take time to watch how things looked and made him feel.

This hotel had nothing really noticeable. It was a regular motel, on three level. The picture perfect of an American west coast hotel. No balcony, doors aligned on three levels directly accessible from the outside. You could stay and watch every tenant going in or out of their room.

At the desk, a young man raised his head from his phone as Jack approached.

« – Welcome to the Mo’Hotel. In need of room? He said in a atone voice.

• Well… yes. It’s say on your billboard that their’s vacancy available. That’s why I’m here.
• Yeah… so?
• I’ll take a room buddy.
• Alright. Sea side view?
• Yeah, why not.
• It coast more with a view on the sea.
• Yeah, give me a room. I just want a good night of sleep.
• Room 313, the third floor. Here’s the key.
• Thanks.
• It’s 35$.
• Yeah, alright.
• Also, it’s a weird room.
• Sorry what?
• It’s a room with… things.
• What are you on about?
• Previous clients complained of noise, knocking on the door. They found their clothes and stuff in a mess, things displaced and weird things like that.
• Well, that’s sound fun. Do you have some creepy weirdos as client lately?
• You want my opinion?
• Yeah…
• It’s a ghost! It’s been going on for a bit now. Every time I have to go in this room, I do a little prayer even thought I don’t believe in God.
• Jesus! You surely know how to ease a client!
• There’s a weird feeling to that room. You’ll probably feel it.
• Alright. I just want to sleep, maybe a few hours of sleep will not disturb anything that linger here.
• Well, I hope for you. I’ve seen your face somewhere but I can’t remember where I saw it. Are you famous or something?
• No. I just write on papers for a living. Anyway, good night buddy.
• Yeah, good luck… night mister.
• Thanks! »

Jack started to think that hotels weren’t his things. Everytime, something weird happened when he rented a room, one time, it coasted him his mariage.

As he climbs the series of stairs, a feeling of dread took over his body. Every cells in his body was telling him to leave.

Jaskiers