The desert of the real

"None is more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe that they are free."

 The day was exhausting. It's almost two o'clock in the morning on a hot summer night and I'm laying on my bed smoking the tenth malboro listening to some relaxing music. My stomach is digesting itself and the half bottle of whiskey I consumed in the last two hours, for I haven't eaten anything since breakfast. I want to take a look outside the window to witness our maker's greatest creation, just to make me feel better.

 But the poison in mind is in effect. I can't see the world. All I see is a system. And this system is everywhere. It's my appartment, the clothes I wear, the music I like. It makes me obey when it has to stabilize and it makes me retaliate when it sees fit to change it's leader. It has spread nice and warm all over to hide the dominant truth.

 That we are slaves. That we were born in bondage. Born in a prison, where everything we see, smell or feel is part of the plan. A prison for the mind.

 Being part of a system means being under it's control. Salesmen, politicians, actors, doctors, me, you, we are all under control, manipulated by any means, it has been using and disgracing the most sacred things to make us set our minds to achieve their goal, to win the crown for them. And some of us are so hopelessly dependent on this system that we even fight to protect it.

 Having this thoughts I feel desperately weak, and no matter how much alcohol I consume, I cannot feel any stronger. The world seems darker and darker and my last thought as I fall asleep is if questioning this reality is also part of the plan.