"One shudders to imagine what inhuman thoughts lie behind that mask..."
Would you spare some time, for a round of confession? A confession from a beggar, a rich one.
What, you ask. How can a beggar be rich? Why is it so? Do resist your temptation to ask these idiotic questions, as they are of no help to anyone. Not even you.
This beggar is poor, poor in eloquence. This beggar is hurt, hurt in personality. This beggar is deprived, deprived of his "consciousness". This beggar is torn, torn from his companions. This beggar has nothing, nothing but material, worthless money. And the most important of all: This beggar is begging, begging for your time to hear his confession.
Is this world deterministic? Well, many may believe that the world is in fact controlled by our free-will: that we can mold our future with our hands. "I am afraid that is a bit too optimistic to be true", he says (Or at least he THINKS). As a person who lost his "consciousness", he is definitely not going to "determine" his future, or even his present. His mind is so deeply drawn into immaterial, non-existent concepts (why are they important anyway? I say, stop asking these paltry questions. They mean little, if not nothing), that he cannot even focus on any worldly affairs. He has a tendency to drop petty matters out of his mind. The trouble is: What seems petty to him, is definitely not petty to his "superiors". (I am being too explicit here, and I shall refrain from describing any further.)
You see, only a fool would concentrate himself on useless symbols that means little. Wait, are we in the concrete world, where everything must be organized and clear? I implore you to remove your assumption that we are currently situated in that "concrete" world. No man ever lived in the "concrete" world. They only lead an existence. A dead existence.
There is no second chance in the "concrete" world. It is tainted with the sickly green gooey substance that entraps all emotions. It kills all imagination by suffocating it. It tortures minds by extorting it with "death" (I don't understand how a dead person can "die"). Hostility is green.
He confesses that he is in the "concrete" world. He wants to escape. He wants to live again. But how can I grant his wish? Nobody would listen to this fine gentleman. And I, alone, seemingly apathetic (emotions exist not in the "concrete" world. It is natural that you don't see mine), actually empathize this gentleman. But how insignificant I am! How powerless I am, to the overwhelming of the "dead". I am drowned, just like he is about to be, in this sickly green goo. Who attempts to escape, drowns.
But who would listen anyway? Even a confession is regarded as pretense in this "concrete" world.
I like that gentleman, a rich beggar, a poor beggar, a sick beggar, a mindless beggar, an absent-minded beggar, a quaint beggar, an idiosyncratic beggar, an alive beggar. He is all of them in one.
He lives. Do you?
"...What dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty!"
