Think of Travis Bickle.
Think of Patrick Bateman.
Think of Mr. Robot.
Think of The Narrator.
Don’t say it.
What if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness, and say to you, "This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same succession and sequence" ... Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: "You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.
Dare I say? Life is nothing but a never-ending repeat for all of us.
Since V felt he was abandoned by society for being gay, all V ever wanted was to belong someplace at whatever price, and he always paid for it. It’s crashing weddings, sneaking into Casanovian cults and pretending to write. Going back in time, V asked himself, what’s a normal person? It’s to be someone of purpose, aim, and kindness, as well as someone of generosity and politeness. These qualities aren’t always indicative of a person whose insides are alive and well.
Pst, right and wrong are clear, but should that stop V?
You rarely hide insanity with a disturbing mask. It’s the model citizens you have to be wary of. Jeffrey Dahmer? Ted Bundy? So many hopeless romantics/violent killers were like Mr. Rogers on the outside. It’s so funny to hear people bewildered by Dahmer’s good manners. Unless a person decides to die, then there’s no hiding anymore. Who said he who wilfully reveals himself has already planned his funeral? Please tell me; I’m not well read.
After school, the smart bunch went home to study and plant live flower seeds that they'd grow later in the sun. As for the misfits, they go bored and grow bored and careless. That night, there was the start of construction on a new building in town. The boys split in two and armed themselves with stones. A loose stone with a mind of its own hits a moving car; the front shield breaks, and the owner gets out and snatches an innocent kid who was just passing by. The owner dialled for the cops to arrive. They did so very quickly, and people gathered to watch. To people, a scandal is a delight. We often compare ourselves to others because we’re unhappy with who we are, so we’d delight to see someone fall; it makes us feel better. It’s gratitude to God that my life isn’t as screwed up as that guy’s.
Yeah, right?
But first, please answer this questionnaire.
Are you a well-functioning person?
Is your life balanced?
Are you capable of love?
Are you normal?
Is your life in order?
Are you educated?
Are you goal-oriented?
Are you a decent person?
Do you learn?
Do you care?
Do you appreciate the value of hard work?
Are you happy?
If you answered yes to at least one question, you’re absolutely right to bid Adieu to this sinking ship. I wave farewell with all smiles, thinking of what could have been if my path wasn’t already set in stone by an impulse I’m still learning to know.
My hope is to connect with an outsider who, like me, looks forward to living in hell.
Creatives and builders, stay clear!
Destroyers out there!
Rejects and scum of the earth out there!
Why does everyone belong to a club and we don’t?
Probably because we’re examples and reminders,
Of what good means and what evil requires.
Hello, drifters and people of in-between lands! Hello, to the homeless and tribeless. Hello, cavemen tucked inside endless icy walls! It’s time! I am speaking to those digging to raise dead flowers in hell. Hello to those who are stuck between reality and the fantasy of who they are. Are you brave enough to fulfill your promise of psychopathy and ignorance? Are you wired well enough to turn the tables?
When the light goes out, you don’t want to say you couldn’t.
Throw away your Qurans and Bibles, and only keep some Rationals.
You really tried, but did you really travel that far?
Listen to the world as it answers back.
Do you trust yourself, pal?
You shouldn’t.
You and I know we can't create. To learn to fly towards the heavens takes a pure mind and a lighter soul that carries no heavy weight, but you've already gone too far, and there’s no turning back.
Forgive me, but who said that if you can’t get God’s approval, then you can catch his attention the other way around? It’s to be so good that history’s proud? Or to be so bad that history hides you? It’s Infamy or love. It’s heaven or hell.
V wasn’t part of any team that night. He sat back on a side bench, listening to World Painted Blood and witnessing the two teams throw rocks around. But because he knows what it means to have your innocence stomped on, he turns the music off, gets up, and fights his way through the crowd. He approached the man and pleaded and screamed, ‘’ He didn’t do anything; let him go’’. The man, whose fury and greed blinded him, grabbed V’s arm and said, ‘’ Well, then you did it.’’ One or two people tried to reason with the man, but, to no avail, the police heard it all and couldn’t care. V and the other boy, whose name is Alice, were handcuffed and locked up, and off they went to spend a night in jail.
Oh yes, many of us freaks can be heroes too. It’s so hard to believe, I know.
What’s a hero? He’s as lost as the person he tries to save. But it's funny when life renders a heroic act absurd, especially when the next day in class, everyone looked at V as if he were stupid for wanting to help.
Believe it or not, this happened time and time again until V gave up hope and turned to fantasy and drugs.
V spent the next few years wandering around and working hard to fail. V and Alice were sitting in the grass near the school. Alice says, '‘French lit class is in ten minutes, and I’m going.'' V replies, ‘’ I already know the answer to every question, don’t you know?’’ You take a plastic bag and fill it with the right amount of glue, preferably the kind that’s used for tubes. You add a chewed chocolate bar and mix those together. The understanding is that chocolate helps ease the dry taste of the glue. Now, hold the bag to your mouth and nose and inhale deeply. Try it, and you’ll suck on that bag like dicks and nipples don’t exist.
Alice’s already gone.
V lay there on the grass, high on cloud nine. He dreams or hallucinates of a vast desert that’s so dry and empty. He’s running slow and frantically looking around for something that’s not there. He is simply not there and doesn’t care. As he runs, V slowly transforms into a rock that resembles a wheel, and a giant man comes out of the sky and presses V’s torso hard. V woke up, threw away the plastic bag, and vowed to never inhale those demons again. It was only after more than a decade that he realized that whatever runs him runs even deeper than he thought. There’s no change or writing; for him, he’s like a cold machine, and his spirit inside is a dry land.
I can’t create.
Forgive me again, but who said that the most important thing in our lives is to know our exact place in the world?
It’s freeing and beautiful to know your place resides in the undertow, free of right or wrong. When a man makes a decision, is it possible that he could choose a different path? Look back at what's been said and done; the lesson life gave V is that it’s okay to be a lifeless desert.
Can a hollow psycho create?
Where does a company take liars and cheaters?
Can pretenders be welcomed among people of good intentions and faithful hearts?
I fear not.
Destroyers out there! Can we go and deliver on our promise? Or will we get stuck in hell forever?
I know you’re out there; for sure, nobody is as unique as God or Satan.
That’s our meaning in life; it’s to break free of ice and be history’s example. It’s to sit proudly outside God’s kingdom. So many before you found themselves in the undertow, so love your fate and play your part to perfection.
‘’The torture in my head, it won't stop, until I am fucking dead
Pestilence is here, death awaits, your body is not of Christ
It's my alter, helpless and alone, violate, enveloped in my skin
Faceless canvass, tearing all your flesh, bathed in blood’’
Slayer
Serial Loser Or : How to Fail in Life and love it
Life, Love, and every endeavour you can think. A anti-dote to not feel BAD.
Sorry to bore YOU with this opening.
Drop here, and sit, then grab a cigarette and hold your stinking breath for as long as possible.
NON-smokers! Get the fuck out of here.
Non-drinkers! No respect.
Cannabis users?
Eat shit, and also get the fuck out of here.
At a usual class meeting, in the old old middle of school of Ben K.D, there was a teacher of music who, unlike the rest, encouraged a more progressive type of teaching. He was a dude whose black hair and inviting smile could create a writer out of a fool and a Comedian out of a burnt out envious little rascal.
So, the class was full that day, he stood in the middle of the class room and gave it to us STRAIGHT! No bullshit, ‘’ Perform a piece of Art right here, get your deserved mark, or I’ll own your ass ti’ll the end of the semester.’’
How beautiful THAT was. If only or maybe, well some were flabbergasted by his frankness, some us lazy students who loved a short cut were absolutely in love with the idea. Of course the cool hard working students; young men and young women of the most respectable kind saw the whole class of WHAT did he say? Who needs music when it’s not even a key module?
Music, unlike the other disciplines, it tends to hit right in the feels – I know this sounds clichéd. But, it’s so true. The first sound an infant makes while fighting his way out the womb is a sound. Mine was Chinese. Basically a cry, and researchers lately in the University of Lubiana have come up with an amazing study that traces back our memories – our deepest insights and thoughts – into pieces of shattered music here and there. It’s not really NOT an important subject, it’s not a sub-subject.
Universal rule: Music is the bread and butter of language. Find me anyone who tries to live witphout eating carbohydrates atleast once a week, and I’ll find YOU a liar. A non musical being. A Mythical phoenix.
Yadari alexander diogenes, so i gqve myself a new name Daniel Faraday. Aka ( Al 3adim) medium hair. Wink Wink, I’m tying to make a dress, a blazer of a black and green shape. ‘’Chicago?’’ He said, to which I replied, ‘’ My runaway chick is eating dead people alive, and I’d like to have her at me special diner’’, The great master inhaled a cigarette and spoke, ‘’ I’m jewish too.’’
Dog meat?
Get lost, would you?
Swim alongside sharks
Hello l’makhzan!
Are you there, its me Younes El Yadari, aka Rabbi-Iblis. Younes El Yadari the 3rd, you can call me Evion.
Enron, or Edna, or the president, or the Duke aswell!
I’m by john clair, read and get my handcuffs but, first let me drink human blood, no water, why did I say that?
I’m seeking attention, and basically can’t think beyond my self made chains.
A liar, absolutely and a thief but, I’m no Dog eater. I’d like to, but you know, a 100 years behind bars promises NOTHING. Not being and nothingness. I know jack shit about philosophy.
Dancer.
Poet?
Porn?
Sex?
ChildREN OF THE CORN.
Stop, mr Judge. By Hay Sidi Mousa and come here you little devil YOU.
And stick a dildo up my ass. And bring Sari Cool with you and Najib ofcourse. Wink Wink, I’m the one you’re looking for. And that baldhead has been who’s been bought and sold by ikea furniture and razor blades.
You think I’m fucking around here?
Let me put my garbage in:
Red-Green-Gold
4-P blazers.
Handcuffs much?
Prison much?
I love it.
War on the Nile at this minute, what the hell are they talking about?
Moghtaribin?
What the fuck.
Pause, let the Matrix dudes possess me.
Ilias Lmaliki, I want sniff your butt cheeks.
What do you want?
Cotton pants, black
Core d’army General Major?
Brown shoes.
I’d like to have a talk with the King himself.
Mohamed 6 and his son Hassan to ask for permission in order to write a novel about the royal family, Fear by Kendrick Lamar here we go again.
Where the fuck is my voice?
Voice ---- Younes.
This while ordeal stick a needle up YOURS the academy. This minimalism curse is a fucking wreck.
Charles ‘’ Charles’’ Palahniuk is among the best, I call it economic writing. As it touches the young and old, for a more intellectual talk, a write for the average person, meaning: The common, the every day workers etc…
What I’m looking for is the great novel. A novel that is both strange and wonderful, yet scary and makes you vomit. Even worse, to make YOU kill yourself, not in the literally sense, but a symbolic sense, further meaning: To handshake death and keep on jerking its dick off. Haha, it’s not funny to me atleast, for other people they love it. The thought of someone burning in hell alone at his room makes their joy stick up high in the cloud as God is a death merchant.
Welcome to Islam.
Islamic cult of death worship, a 24/7 of non-stop dress to kill, hold on 2012 and place here and end point, they’re building a theatre in his hon……………ouiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
His name is Patrick james, Henri Goma, Pablo Solano and Zoltan Purzcil. The next top writer coming in the next generation, kid you not, they’re imaginary. But a little Mozart does indeed live nearby.
Not the one with the shot gun, the blue pen. But, an eye of an inquisitive nature that really put me to shame.
I do indeed care. Some thought I’m a cold blooded murderous scumbag who’s engraving the lullabies and heavens and pearly gates of the world in his basement?
Am I kevin Spacey? All that I know of him is that he’s a good actor.
And deserves respect and a chance to get back to his feet.
Hollywood does indeed love a redemption story?
Kid you not, I’ve a screen writer and a failed novelist for almost fourteen to fifteen years.
Alex Yehorenkov’s whole way of being: the way he moves and sits and the little murmurs his eyes make, speak this: ‘’ Yahweh is my God’’
My eye was stolen. Perhaps he needs help but, I can’t give you help buddy. The powers at be would like YOU to remain there, sitting on that little branch of yours to reflect on existence, albino Rousseau and such. Suck your own wife’s balls, please.
WILL you.
Rabbi-Iblis
06 42 39 61 11
The other Younesoooohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
I’m a genius.
Anas?
Code name for Genius.
Genie.*
Jenyany meaning: Theatre.
( Pst, I got the plan work, would you be so bold as to lay your horse down and come please, Soufiane Hicham)
Firdaous Belghit would like to marry you, is that right? IS THAT so?
Well, she has HIv buddy?
Remember that necklace I gave you, it’s worth five Us Dollas. And the biggest missing piece remains with me.
So, I kill YOU.
The Magician that came from Narrutto?
I know you raped your little sister, and you’re playing the Dr. Strangelove which in a way, YOU sick bastards.
SickO,
Much?
Needed help?
Cake or Death?
Deadly-Ifrit, would care to take this name too?
Remember Me?
The one who was rejected and remains rejected by pretty much everyone.
Ibrahim Boutarbouch? Mr. abe and Red Pilled Cults of Modern Day Casanovians or: How to Command Armies at the Bullshit Front.
The car you’re driving is own by the SaloSolutions corporations.
You’re chained to a melody that neither this freak and his buddy know, basically the cult or whatever I was talking about, the Fat Cancer Story and my little story, and Chuck’s story and everyone on earth is a story of a never ending repeat of same old same old, money can’t fix what Artificial Intelligence has done to every industry on earth.
Death of Cinema?
Video games?
Porn?
Blue pill?
Red pill?
Purple haze of a new God of technology that speaks X-I-V-Z, unlock and unpack and YOU’ll know what the fuck is the writers strike is about.
Younes El Yadari wrote this, just so my father Abderrahim ElYadari wouldn’t steal my story.
‘‘You lay he who’’
Let X be X?
Just, just, DON’T Murder me.
We probably are very different when it comes to our expectations and preferences but that is of little importance. One thing I know is that I appreciate anarchical and nomad souls, those individuals refusing to let themselves trapped in the mesh of the rigid society dictating us who we should be. So you got me with the first part of your writing (the one about V). Rest of it became blurry to me, probably because it enfolded some personal aspects that I know nothing about.
Regardless, reading it I had the feeling of being in a room with walls entirely splashed with blood. A room where someone I could not see was screaming incomprehensible words… what I wanted to remind you is that many of us live with the torture of wanting impossible things. They scratch the heart endlessly like a crow feeding from the flesh of a diying body, never to quench its hunger no matter how much it would eat.
And so, the alternatives are either to let yourself consumed by the pain and die or embrace it and learn to see it as a companion that will follow your steps for the rest of your life. There is no point into asking for mercy or help. There won’t be any. It’s only you and the sound or your steps on the alleyway… a demented mask that can't be mended…