The Stench Of Social Injustice

There is no such thing as justice. Where there is no justice there is no injustice. We must be cautious with this and ensure we follow specifics. Justice and injustice, in respect of the piece linked to, is very different, to the type I’m going to talk of here: social injustice.

“From a very early age we’re sold the fairy tales”

This is of course the reason why we’re so taken with the pomp and circumstance of royalty and in particular royal weddings. The idea, that a prince and princess can exist in real life, fascinates and engages the imagination. There are those that would say royal weddings create beauty in an ugly world. Bringing the fiction of the fairy tales of childhood to life is a wonderful thing. It certainly acts as a form of escape for many.

“I asked myself, what is the fascination, and why do we love them so?”

We love fiction and fear the truth. The truth is hard to bear. The acceptance that a royal wedding, even though it may appear to be fiction brought into real life, is but a lie. Love-ever-after, between the noble prince and the bashful princess, remains but a fiction. In reality, they still need to take a shit in the morning, and they still need to deal with the very human, and very painful drama, of relationships. We love the fantasy and fear the reality.

“The reality that finding our prince or princes remains forever an unattainable fiction for billions and a reality for just a few”

Whilst millions wallow in their own faeces, with the Ebola virus virulent, we have the fantasy sold as real. And even though there are those bleeding – usually from the eyes, and when close to death, possible bleeding from the ears, nose and rectum – we can escape for a moment or two.

“Just make sure you clear the homeless bums from around the area!”

Yes we can ignore the social injustice as long as we don’t smell it or see it, but just remember my friends, all human shit stinks. As much as we sugar coat turds, if that’s all we’re prepared to do, it’ll never make a lasting change.

I want to know: In what way is royalty with their fiction made real, all their land, money and property, actually helping clear the rife abuse of our children in this world? In what way are they – the chosen ones – actually lifting ignorant breeders from their poverty? In what way are they ceasing the suffering of the child?

Does the daughter of an alcoholic man, who regularly rapes her, find the fairly tales a relief? Perhaps, but in the long term, the reality hits her hard: now she’s grown, taking the first stranger in her mouth, prostituting herself for drugs. Is this her prince? No, he’s a fucking cunt!

The fairy tale ultimately defines us as the ‘others’ and never those ‘chosen.’ Does this empower or keep us in our place: less of a human than they? After all, it’s all her fault; her choosing to become a drug addicted prostitute, is it not?

“We must never forget, royalty, have been chosen by God. We must never forget how at the wedding the preacher described social media as dysfunctional! Fuck! How they fear the truth. Fuck! How they fear free speech!”

Yes there’s injustice, the injustice of how the privileged and protected, keep us in our place. The injustice of how they remain the elite and powerful through the illusions we’re sold from birth. The illusion that ‘their shit don’t stink’ keeps alive the guilt of how the turds of the lesser mortals do. No matter how many weddings they have, or awards they give, there will always be something rotten to the core, we the under privileged, are too blind to see.

What If Reality Were Better Than Fiction?

“At the time of writing the Harry Potter books, if JK Rowling had thought her reality, better than fiction, she’d never have put pen to paper”

Rowling’s reality, at the time of writing Harry Potter, was, as we’re led to believe, horrible. As she put it herself: “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.”

We all, from time to time, feel the need to escape into a fictional world. It’s unfortunate we can’t all be like Rowling, and make a fortune from the fictional worlds we create, yet the escape we find, can be a useful rest from a horrible reality. At least for a while that is.

“It’s important to be aware of the methods we use to escape reality. You might think it’s only when we’re daydreaming or reading a book. It is not. We humans have developed many means of escape”

The problem with fiction is, we do eventually need to sober up and drag ourselves back, from that comfortable place. We can’t fully function in the real world if we don’t. Returning from fiction, can be a difficult transition though, especially if we’re addicted to its powerful allure.

This said, there are those individuals, who seem able to spend their entire lives dressing as fairies, talking childish nonsense and generally behaving, as if the world was some kind of magical wonderland. In fiction it is. When we’re under the influence it is. In reality, the world, whether we like it or not, is anything but.

On a personal level, I struggle to see the benefit of maintaining a fictional reality, when there are so many truly, meaningful things, that can be done in the real world today.

Yes, by all means write fiction for children – they need it to stimulate their imaginative minds – however, for the adults, our reality must be seen for what it is. Once we do this we desire improvement. We see the world for what it truly is.

“Now, there are those of you who say: the world is beautiful. I would agree. What isn’t so beautiful though, is how we’re treating it, and each other”

Harry Potter isn’t going to stop wars, prevent psychopaths becoming world leaders, or use his magic wand to clean up the oceans anytime soon. In the direct sense neither am I, yet it may well be, that somewhere along the line, others also wake to the true realities of the world, and begin to care. The domino effect dictates this. The connectedness of everything dictates this. It just needs to start somewhere.

Once empowered by love we become courageous. When we’re courageous, we stop escaping into fictional worlds. When strong we begin to see, if we remain in an imaginary world, created through denial and ignorance, we have no chance of improvement whatsoever. Wake and see what’s really going on.

Let’s grow and make our reality better than fiction. Contact us.

The Locksmith Series #9 (John’s feeling Stoned)

“Of late John had started feeling a little strange”

Or ‘out of sorts,’ as he’d heard it said. At first he’d put this down to coming off cocaine. Yet now, the feelings had changed from the anxious twitchiness, you’d associate with coming off a drug habit, to something more akin to being stoned.

He wasn’t stoned, in fact he’d not touched a smoke, of any sort, for over five years; the white stuff he’d always sniffed up his snout, but now he’d been off that for some weeks, he was starting to wonder what the hell was wrong with him. The closest he could get to describing it, if anyone had bothered to ask him, would be a sort of detached – couldn’t give a shit – kind of attitude, very odd. Very odd indeed.

John’s feeling Stoned

Further to this, and as a general rule, John considered himself to be an ‘up’ kind of person. Not anxious as such, just a little wired, most of the time. So these feelings were something new. Although he’d described it to himself as feeling like being slightly stoned, there was none of the usual stuff you’d associate with that. No paranoia, no sore tightness in the lungs, none of the unpleasant encounters with rip-off ‘dealers’ and definitely none of the smell. He wasn’t doing drugs, yet felt the detached separateness from things, being mashed, had brought him in the past.

“On top of these unexplained feelings he was also becoming convinced his hearing was getting worse”

John had lived with poor hearing for quite some time now. Over recent months (even after investing nearly two grand in state of the art hearing aids) he’d noticed that he hardly heard anything anyone said to him anymore. It didn’t matter much really. Most of the time he was able to guess what people asked of him; all the questions were the same. The same boring repetition.

If someone asked him a more ‘left field’ kind of question, he’d not hear it at first, and so would ask them to repeat themselves. On them doing this he’d sometimes make a special effort to look up and work harder to hear what they’d said. But now, even on asking them to repeat themselves, he was increasingly finding himself just smiling and agreeing with whatever they said. One of these days someone’s was going to say: you’re a real cunt aren’t you? And he’d stand there with a stupid grin on his face responding with a nod and a yes. What a wanker. Perhaps he should make more effort to take an interest, but now – with this new impassiveness he constantly felt – that seemed increasingly unlikely. It was beginning to overwhelm him. Or was the word underwhelm. Was everyone and everything begging to underwhelm him?  

Some days he found himself wondering what the fuck this shitty life was all about. He didn’t feel particularly depressed or anything, he’d just quite simply stopped giving a shit, about anything. If he was honest, all he really wanted to do, was drink coffee in cafes, people watch, and eat cake. There didn’t seem much point in doing anything else. He felt surrounded by insanity and it fascinated. In fact, when he was doing his favourite thing, people watching in cafes, he’d just sit and wonder – between mouthfuls of coffee and cake: – What exactly are these fucking people doing?

“After his decision to stop spending time with Evo his life had closed down somewhat”

He didn’t think this was any bad thing – especially since the knock back in the nightclub that final evening – he just wondered what in hell he was actually going to do? What was he going to do surrounded by insanity? What was he going to do about feeling stoned all the time? The funk of it all was starting to weight on him. What was going to be the ultimate outcome of all this?

In quieter moments, away from the cafes and people, he’d recognised how unafraid he’d become. Most people, he surmised, must be driven, on some level, by some kind of fear. The fear of being sacked; the fear of losing a loved one; the fear of getting ill and dying; the fear of eating the wrong things. The list goes on, but he, with this new attitude, had simply stopped drinking, smoking or eating shit food (mostly) and that seemed the weirdest outcome of all. Perhaps, with this new development, it was time to add something to the mix.  

“With nothing actually mattering anymore, he felt almost serine”

Was this how people felt before they died? Or was it how they felt once they understood what really mattered in life: Hardly anything at all. It seemed the only thing that really mattered to John, right now, was breathing in. Why was it such a relief to be able to breath the fuck out again? For fucks sake!

Home, and alone in his apartment now, John’s mind went to Emily. He was curious about Emily. He’d noticed a change in her the last time they’d met. He knew she’d been to see that wacko guy called The Locksmith; she told him about it. What had happened to her? And more importantly, what had happened to him? Had she cast some kind of spell on him?

It had gone like this. The following Friday, after the increasingly common spat they’d had the week before, both she and Joanne sat waiting in the cafe. They were both sitting at their usual table when he’d walked in. They’d normally be animatedly chatting, but on this occasion, they sat quietly both staring into the middle distance. “Hi” he’d said and it seemed to take a moment before they even registered that he’d sat down alongside them. Eventually they warmed up, their usual banter, resumed.

As he pondered on that afternoon now, he thought: perhaps this spacey feeling he’d been experiencing, was some kind of illness, and it was catching? A bad thing to catch? Perhaps it was time to see The Locksmith himself.  

The Locksmith #8 (Distracted By The Human Condition)

The Human Condition

The Locksmith had watched Emily leave the room, waited for Lord Harry (the little terrier dog) to return, before closing his eyes again. It took just a few moments for him to gain his composure.

Human behaviour often amazed, shocked, saddened and sometimes even amused The Locksmith.

It wasn’t so much unexpected – to hear the tales such as the one just recounted by Emily – it was more about how it made him feel. It was disappointing to him, that so many people didn’t see the deeper side of their behaviour; the real purpose to it.

Ultimately, it didn’t so much matter that their behaviour was destructive to themselves and others – time heals after all – it mattered that so many seemed ambivalent to it all. For he understood, when there’s indifference or ambivalence to anything, change will be slow, or fail altogether.

He understood how human indifference wasn’t necessarily their state of mind to begin with, for him though, it developed rather too quickly.

The perpetrators of harm rarely gave though to the damage they caused. Abusive acts, be they physical or emotional, were carried out with such disregard, it saddened him. This lack of empathy and consideration for others was what also amazed. How have they made it this far? He would puzzle.

He experienced equal measure of amazement and sadness, for how people had such low regard for themselves, and their lives. Life can be so beautiful when one takes a moment to stop. And to have such lack of regard for others, was often a clear reflection of the low regard they held for themselves, and all life in general.

All these unloved children, with empty souls, seeking what they lacked.

The Locksmith also understood, the self-centered nature of human children, often never left them. Was being taught ‘out’ of this, through educating children about the dangers of self-centeredness, being overlooked? He would meditate on such questions. If the only concern, is for satisfaction of the self, humans will begin to lose the very thing that’s made them so successful: Their togetherness. His mind would answer the questions. It was the questions that mattered.

It seemed to him, that the need for power and control over each other, remained at the heart of so many of their troubles. The playground games, of winning or losing favour with each other, was a constant. Taking sides, building allegiances; general bullying and tittle-tattle was also there. All games created by the children seeking power, attention, and above all, love.

At times it became a distraction for him. His awareness of this was an annoyance.

He did have better things to be thinking of. For example, what was the nature of the seed he’d been sent here to plant? He knew it had a lot to do with the human concept of love. A flawed concept, though it was.

When something isn’t universally understood, it becomes a struggle to find it’s true power, as confusion tends to defuses it. His thoughts often concluded with the realisation of it flawed nature, yet he was always soothed, by its usefulness. It is the best they’ve come up with, to explain their feelings, he would surmise.

Having regained his composure his thoughts returned to Emily. Dear, dear Emily. Such a lonely child. Could he not say the same about all the people he’d met?

Reaching out to her again he sensed her pain ebbing. In his mind’s eye, he saw her walked away, back to a life, better understood. He knew the whole purpose to her life was love, just not one, she yet fully understood. The sooner the better he thought.

The Locksmith Series #6

Drugs. Back in the bar, the two girls had migrated over, John and Evo were giving it their best.

It was all going so well until the gorgeous girl John was talking to, leaned in towards him, and with her right hand, cupped his balls over his jeans and whispered in his ear: “It’s a shame, but if you weren’t such a stoner, maybe we’d have got it on.” John was so stunned, it was a moment before he realised they’d left.

“Sexy bitches,” he heard Evo say.

John let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. “Yeah, sexy bitches,” he agreed wistfully.

In his heart of hearts John knew it was time to make some changes in his life, he also knew – with this knowing heart of his – it would involve dropping Evo from his life. That would be the easy part, changing his habits, potentially wouldn’t.

“Evo, I’m off mate,” he said, “Things are quieting down.”

“Oh come on man, the nights just getting started,” Evo leaned in and whispered into the opposite ear the girl had used, “I’ve got some more gear.”

“Nah, thanks all the same, I’ve sort of lost me mojo all of sudden, I’ll see around.” He didn’t even give Evo the opportunity to respond, wouldn’t have heard him if he had, a moment later he was outside the bar, standing in the rain. It was time to go home.

The Locksmith Series #5

Abreaction is the phenomena experienced when we revisit emotionally charged memories from the past. These emotions and buried memories drive our neurosis.
Abreaction is the phenomenon experienced when we revisit emotionally charged memories from the past. These emotions and buried memories drive our neurosis.

Abreaction and Meditation. Emily was standing in front of the flame red door. Finding Vidya Alley had been surprisingly easy. A few minutes earlier, as she’d walked toward the door – clearly spotted at the end of the alley – she’d been puzzling over how, in all the years living in the area, she’d never noticed the alleyway before. It’s amazing what you can miss, when you’re not looking for it, she’d thought. As she raised her hand, about to touch the gold coloured knob, neatly centred in the middle of the door, it clicked open. The door continued to gently swing inwards and now, beyond it, she could see a softly lit hallway. There was no one there to greet her, and yet, after seeing the soft light, and now smelling the sweet incense, she decided to step forward.

Tucked into the right hand corner of the L-shaped hallway, sat a grandfather clock, it was gently ticking; the pendulum swinging, right to left, right to left: tick, tock, tick, tock went the hypnotic sound. Just in front of the clock, and somehow slightly out of context, there sat a small terrier type dog: quite scruffy and unkempt looking, and in that way dogs do, when they’re trying to work something out: a sound or something they’ve seen, its head was turned slightly to the right; he sat very still, completely unmoving.

As Emily stared at the dog, it sat so still, she began to wonder if it was a stuffed toy. But then, as if seeming to want to clear up her confusion, the little dog stood up, walked away from her, retreating further into the house. She looked on after it, slightly sad – thinking that might be the end of the encounter – when it suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked back at her.

After a few moments, and a slight wag of its tail, the dog walked off turning into the entrance of an adjoining room. Emily, perhaps foolishly, decided to take that as an invitation to follow, she glanced behind her, noticing that the front door was now closed. It had closed so gently and silently, she hadn’t felt, or heard a thing.

The entrance, through which the little dog had disappeared, was covered by a beaded curtain. Emily couldn’t see what lay beyond the curtain and so allowed her curiosity to pull her into the room.

On entering, the first thing she noticed, was a man sitting on a cushion in the centre of the room. There was absolutely nothing else in the room except a small incense burner and a similar cushion placed opposite him. The man appeared to have his eyes closed. He had very short hair and was wearing loose, saffron coloured, robes. She thought to herself, oh bollocks, it’s a fucking Buddhist.

“Hello Emily,” said the man, “I see you’ve met Lord Harry, and no, I’m certainly not a Buddhist, the reason I wear these robes is because they’re practical and comfortable, and I like the colour.”

Two things popped instantly into her mind: How the fuck did he know my name and who the fuck is Lord Harry?

“Lord Harry is the little fella sitting next to you who showed you in, and no, I’m not reading your mind, I just have excellent timing is all.”

She looked down, and sure enough, there was the curious little dog.

“That doesn’t explain how you know my name though, does it?” said Emily, “That’s a bit creepy by the way, and actually, now I come to think of it, this whole experience so far has been a bit creepy,” – I was warned, she thought – “and why don’t you have a phone, everybody has a phone, and how did you know my name?”

“So many questions girl, come, sit as I am, here, opposite me.”

The Locksmith, she’d assumed this must be who she was now talking to, indicated with his hand that she should sit on the small cushion opposite; she did as he requested; placing her bag on the floor; crossing her legs. Lord Harry, the little terrier dog, came over and curled up next to her; she felt instantly at ease, after everything that had happened to Emily, she was ready to be now.

Taking her attention for a moment, a single, white tendril of smoke, spiralled out of the copper incense burner, in front of her. She began to notice the soft lighting now, and wondered where the source of the light was. There were no lamps, wall or ceiling lights she could easily discern, and yet there was light; a calming, soothing light; it seemed to shift and change like the Northern Lights she’d heard so much of. Emily found herself becoming very relaxed, she dreamily heard the Locksmith telling her to notice her breathing, and how the in-breath felt: cool and relaxing; how the out-breath calmed. Her eyelids became so very, very heavy, she felt so relaxed and calm now, and then the unexpected warmth of that salty tear, as it slowly tracked its way down her cheek.  

What on earth is happening to me, she thought.

To be continued…

The Locksmith Series #4

Loneliness
We all find ways to cope with loneliness

Loneliness. Walking in the opposite direction to Emily, Joanne was pondering on what she needed to pick up from her local convenience store. As it was Friday, she thought it would be especially nice to treat Molly, her cat, to some posh cat food and not the cheap stuff she normally bought. Amongst these thoughts wrestled the indecision of whether tonight’s wine was going to be red or white. To help, she tasted them in her mind, comparing the difference between the two, she also thought about what to prepare for dinner, if prepare was the right word, ready meals didn’t really count on that score.

Earlier, she’d reminded Emily about the Locksmith, because she was beginning to grow a little tired of hearing about her struggles with food; we all had our share of problems, and even though she often enjoyed listening, she felt Emily would be better off talking to a professional. Being slightly overweight was one thing, but Joanne believed Emily’s problems, ran a little deeper.

Now she came to think of it, the friend – less of a friend, more of an acquaintance – who’d first mentioned the Locksmith, had described him in quite vague terms, but said she’d felt deeply affected by what he’d told her. The more she thought of it now, the more she started to doubt if sending Emily on such a quest, had been wise. What did she actually know about the Locksmith? The old acquaintance who’d confided in her hadn’t been seen or heard of for some time, in fact, when was the last time she’d seen Rebecca?

Having climbed the few stairs to the landing she now stood at the door to her flat. The bag containing the cat food, and the red wine she’d decided on, swung from her left arm. Joanne was feeling good about her choices, as her true and only trusted companion, she felt Molly was especially deserving of a gourmet-cat-food-treat. The animal was very important to Joanne.

Whilst fumbling around in her bag for keys, she heard a sound from the other side of the door, a smile touched her lips, it sounded like Molly had anticipated her return.

To be continued…

The Locksmith Series #3

Any form of rape is unacceptable and is conducted by the weak and cowardly. The use of drugs is a modern phenomena in this crime
Any form of rape is unacceptable and is conducted by the weak and cowardly. The use of drugs is a modern phenomena in this crime

Rape. It took John all of half an hour to find Evo. It was one of the reasons they stayed friends; they never made any kind of firm arrangements to meet, they just knew where each other tended to hang out, and so relied on fate to guide them. Beside’s, Evo knew some shady characters, and if John spotted any of them in his vicinity, he could easily avoid them.

Having found one another, and separately visiting the bogs for a line of the powdered stuff, the both of them now stood, propping up the bar, and were well into their second vodka and coke of the evening. Chat came easily in the crowded bar, flying high as they both were, they’d also noticed the menu, lady-flesh menu that was.

“It’d be alright if they’d kept on putting coke in coke like they used to wouldn’t it, we could kill two birds with one stone,” said John

“Nah, be less fun that, I don’t mind a quick snort of the powdered stuff myself. Have ya seen those two over yonder?”

“Of course I bloody av,” he replied, “they’re way out of our league though.”  

“You speak for yourself mate, I reckon after half an hour of my intelligent conversation, they’d be sneaking Valium into my glass, never mind the ruffies I’ve got in reserve for the red head!”

“The Valium I can believe, you’d bloody well need it with the amount of shit you’ve been snorting up ya honk of late,” said John, quietly adding, “and if you do ever use those ruffies mate, it makes you more of a wanker, than I’d ever imagined you to be,”

“I’d never use bloody ruffies mate, I’ve got the necessary talent to get what I need, so don’t you worry ya little head. I believe in chemicals though, all the chemicals I can get, but some of them are strictly for sale to the wankers.”

And so it went on, all typical patter to mark the beginning of a weekend that may, or may not, build into one to remember, or not remember, as the case may be.

For Emily and Joanne their Friday afternoon had continued on in a much more sedate fashion. Earlier in the cafe, soon after John had left, Joanne had shared what she knew of the Locksmith: his address, but also explained, that strangely, no appointments could be made as he gave out no phone number; it was just a case of turning up on his doorstep, and hoping for the best. A bit vague for Emily’s liking but her curiosity had been piqued by Joanne’s enthusiasm.

According to directions, off the main road, a few miles from where she now stood, there was a narrow alleyway. At the entrance there was a small nameplate raised high up on the corner building. The nameplate read: Vidya. Again according to directions, soon after entering this alley, she would find a beautifully well maintained door. On asking, Emily had noted that Joanne had said she didn’t know what the nameplate meant either, and added, she didn’t think it important. Emily thought otherwise.

As Joanne had relayed the directions, Emily was surprised to realise she’d never actually noticed the alley before. She assumed this to be similar to when people, who travel the same journey many times, tend to not notice much of what’s going on around them. This understanding was enough to dismiss her confusion. Back in the cafe, she’d asked Joanne if she’d ever seen it herself, and was met with a blank stare. “Why would I,” she’d said, “it’s you and John who go that way to work.”

Joanne had told her that apparently the door was a freshly painted red and a very striking flame-red at that. She’d also told her that right in the centre of the door was a large brass doorknob. According to the person who’d payed the locksmith a visit some time ago, there was no knocker, letter plate, bell or anything like that, so they’d simply placed their hand on the brass knob, to find out if the door would open or not.

Pulling her coat tight around her shoulders, she thought, how intriguing it is to visit a man, calling himself The Locksmith, who has no visible lock on his front door. Sounds a bit like number Ten Downing street but painted red instead, she thought. There was of course every possibility that the name Locksmith, wasn’t self-appointed, or whether this person existed at all. It could all be a great big, and very embarrassing, wind-up. If that proved to be the case, Emily had already decided to not let on she’d actually gone through with it, and visited the beautiful red door. She set of in the direction of Vidya Alley.

To be continued…

Fiction from Reality

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If I were to ask an imam, priest, bishop, or any religious ‘leader’ for that matter, who they worked for, they might say: “God.” I would then ask a secondary question: ‘How do you know God want’s you to work for him/her?’ I’m then likely to get a woolly response like this: “Oh well its a calling you see, you just know.” or better still: “It came to me in a dream.”

Now, if they where particularly canny (and lets face it most are) they might actually respond by saying they work for the people. If this were the answer given, I would then ask: ‘Under what authority are you working for the people?’ The answer must surely be: “Under Gods authority.” And again I ask: ‘How do you know?’

Apart from this calling, be it in dreams, teacups or clouds, we can never, and I repeat, never, really know if there is A, a God and B, a contract of employment he/she is prepared to issue. We can neither prove nor disprove the existence of God. This is very useful if you want to work within the fictional-reality of religious leadership.

It’s a little like me walking into a shop with a payment card, I’d earlier cut out of a piece of cardboard – I might write the words ‘Fictional Payment Card’ on it, just to be on the safe side – and on making payment for my goods asserting to the cashier:

“It’s okay I have a special account issued to me by God, so don’t worry, the bill’s covered! Oh, and bless you my child.”

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So, with all this in mind, we do have to ask ourselves: how exactly have we been hoodwinked into believing these charlatans for so many years? Do we just feel sorry for delusional people and then give them an income for the reward of teaching us fear and guilt? I suppose we do need people to bury us and marry us though don’t we? However, I do have a slight issue with been buried, or married for that matter, by someone, who, in the not too distant future, will be considered insane. Insane, or just very clever confidence tricksters? You decide.

Of course, we can know that there are many, many fictions in life, yet we do, as a general rule, have things set up to protect us from the tricksters: those who take money from us and generally abuse our human rights by constraining us and attempting to remove our freedoms, it’s called the law. Religious leaders though, have managed to place themselves above the law, for hundreds of years. How have they pulled it off?

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Joseph you Sucker!

“It basically comes down to us. Yes it’s our fault (bit of guilt there) because it’s on our insistence that we must continue to believe in the things that really do belong in childhood.”

Life beyond death, a higher authority (other than the laws the universe works under) resurrections, virgin births, burning bushes etc. (in there most literal sense) are of course, fiction. Yet we continue to teach our poor, defenceless and vulnerable children, to believe these things, as fact. This is how the whole system (the world over) is set up, so that a few religious leaders, can lord it over us, exert fictional power over us, and generally live it up at our expense, remarkable. Some might say genius.

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Fact or Fiction?

We do only have ourselves to blame though. As long as we continue to confuse fact from fiction we’re buggered. As long as we continue to teach religious fiction, as fact, in schools, we’re buggered. Most of us don’t really have an issue with a few priest, imams or whoever, having easy lives at our expense. After all they do look after our spiritual values and keep us all in check, living good, compassionate and loving lives. All of that would surely fall apart without them would it not?

Or would we still live this way simply because we know, intuitively and empathetically, how to behave and treat each other in a loving, compassionate manner? Is this not common sense? Perhaps parents who taught common sense, empathy, and what it means to love and show compassion, would be more effective?

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Find reality

“It stands to reason, if we continue to hold people in high regard, who are quite simply deceiving us, we’re never going to advance to the point we’re able to separate facts from fiction ourselves.”

We’re confused, and the time really has come now, to step out of confusion. When there are people – we respected and looked up to as children – leading us, keeping us confused, because of their inability to separate themselves from childhood beliefs, we remain underdeveloped and immature ourselves.

The confusion, felt by young, impressionable Muslims, (especially those living here in the west) is a pain we’re all beginning to experience (see: The Poison in OUR Societies).  To live amongst free people, as a restricted, guilty and frightened subservient, of a nonexistent God, is a pain we must begin to see, for what it really is: A fictional-reality created by charlatans, living easy lives, getting off on the power.

Imagine a world were there are no constraints of a religious nature placed upon us. We could, if we really put our minds to it, be free, trusting our ability to live in harmony, under rules we can see in plain site: The Rules of the Universe.