Fictions: outputs of a random mind, the result of boredom, a thorough waste of time. Who gives a damn about these stories of make-believe people with their make-believe lives pretending to be a mirror to 'real' world, I tell you. All a truck load of rubbish, it happens when people get bored. when they have nothing to do. An evidence of the human race's complacency until the next great castastrophy arrive. Side effect of having enough, a pretense at knowledge and tradition. We should all just go back to basic. EAT, DRINK, BE MERRY. Who ever mentioned anything about stories. Those old storytellers all act like some big shots. Holders of knowledge, bearers of wisdom, keepers of secrets of the Gods. load of Bullshit. Liars everyone of them. so you be careful of these storytellers. They tell you all kinds of crap-shit. And their bloody fiction gets better everyday. They get more and more detailed, coupled with more and more descriptions. It is like the man in the moon. Like newton's apple, like the law of gravity. These storytellers come in all forms and guise so you be wary of them.

I don't know what the world is coming to. Maybe people are getting so affluent they need lies to sustain them. It is no longer a matter of having, we need the lack, the absent to make sense. Pathetic. If there was a God, he would sooner turn the whole damn civilization with all their vices and corruption into bacterias, single-cellular organisms than have them running around like they are 'Kings" destroying the whole world, wiping innocent creatures off the map. Maybe they are already bacterias. germs mutated, rotten to the core, in their self-deluded bubbles of bliss filled with sweet-smelling lies. Making up even more stories about being a chosen race, whilst all the time being afraid of tiny creatures like crockroaches, because they know the crockraoches are more of a chosen race than them. Calling them dirty, diseased, pests, all the while being blind to their own filth.

Don't get me wrong, I am not a people hater. I have seen great works by the human race. Pyramids, great monuments what not. Amazing games and dances with fate they have played. I have seen their Hitlers, their Picassos, their Mrs Smith, their Tan Ah Kows. Their miserable short span of existence wasted in years of futile worry, anguish, hatred, petty pleasures, delusion of accomplishment, and their dues to their gods, their pact with the devils, and the attempt to salvage their souls. I seen them proclaim how every life is a treasure, every birth a miracle, and yet I have seen the slaughter of whole race of people in senseless brutal murders. Homicide, Infanticide, Genocide. Always with more stories and lies to justify everything they do. Gory, Glory, just a play with words.

But people, they are forgetful. They live through hell, of killing, murder, slaughter, politics, death and decay. In trenches, in colonial outposts, in prisons, in graves worn down, weathered by time, these ugly things are covered up with more lies, more stories told to gloss over the dirt, the filth, the disease, the decomposition. The rotting bodies, the very stench of death at their door-step becomes clean white marble memorial monuments and national heroes, of youths fighting for ideals, patriotism, heroism. Gory, Glory. The filthy worm eaten flesh and the diseased blood becomes sanctified and baptized, a spiritual gaurdian of the future race. Soil soaked with blood of the saints, the patriots. Demons comdemned henceforth safely inside sanitized format of words. it is easier to make villains and heroes out of people then to see them as what they truly are. People, just people. everyday people, like you drinking a cup of coffee, buying a newspaper, boarding a bus, wiping your ass. You see yourself in the mirror and you think you are safe. You are different. Making more stories about yourself, lies you act out perfectly, lies made to fit.

I wish I could tell you what lies after the lies, the storytelling. i wish I could say for sure there is a god, and give you the name, or that the devil is real. As real as Hitler, or as Santa Clause, And assure you what lies beyond is indeed a paradise or a burning inferno. But then I can no longer tell the fiction from truth, and to me there is no real difference.For I am no divine being, no timeless voice from some unknown abyss from outer space. I am your product, your essential utmost lie, I am your history. Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow. I do not say 'come unto me" because you are in my midst. And I am unsure whether you have written me or I, you. What I know is this, that I am your stories, your lies, your secrets, your meaning of existence, your gods, your devils, your heroes, your villains, your morals, your savageness. Your purity, your very filth. And I can have no mirror, nor reflections, only distortions piled one on top of another until it can be understood that the word 'truth' was one of the first inventions before fire was discovered. I was there. And I will be here, until the word 'history' no longer exist.Then I can consume myself.