One said, “You only write in pain and not when happy.”
The other said, “You are never happy.”
And Tyler Durden said, “We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.”
And His Highness thought, “What about the generation of men being raised by maids?”
‘I love the way you lie.’
No. You don’t need the next answer because it will be further down the road to nowhere. But Tyler could never be wrong. Anyway, this is about Eminem being an anti-depressant by hitting on the painful nerves of misery, loss, hunger, threat, fear, illiteracy, fanaticism, blood, nothingness, and oblivion.
All the content in apostrophes (‘) are lyrics from different songs of Eminem’s. Let’s try… ‘I shouldn’t have to rhyme these words in the rhythm for you to know it’s a rap.’
The other day, some words – of real intellect eh – were thrown randomly and were taken properly. Life is a disease. Sexually transmitted disease. It is as random as a cat getting under a vehicle on a highway. Random highway. Random truck. Random cat.
‘All I ever wanted to do was just make you proud, now I’m sitting in this empty house, just reminiscing looking at your baby pictures.’
Majority of the kids come in this world – at least in this part of the world – to prove that their parents could reproduce. Manhood. Womanhood. A complete biology of being someone who doesn’t matter. These kids come to give a final badge of fulfillment to a couple. A couple, who may not be able to move along in the long-run and may keep on falling daily until death of one. Or both.
‘This is my life. And these times are so hard, and it’s getting even harder.
Trying to feed and water my seed, plus,
Teeter totter caught up between being a father and a prima donna.
Baby mama drama’s screaming on and,
Too much for me to wanna,
Stay in one spot, another day of monotony,
Has gotten me to the point, I’m like a snail.’
There is the other side of the story of existence too. Children are taken as kids only and their stance doesn’t matter. Because the unwritten rules are written by the ones in power. Something like patriarchy. Where no woman can be a Prophet. Same way, no child was a Prophet to command the adults of the world according to what the minors wanted. Want. No philosopher was a child to philosophize the ideas that are compared with the purity of God. Like jumping in a puddle of muddy water being hailed in the heavens. Something like that.
‘I can’t tell you what it really is. I can only tell you what it feels like.
And right now, there’s a steel knife in my windpipe.
I can’t breathe, but I still fight while I can fight,
As long as the wrong feels right, it’s like I’m in flight.’
Children are medals for the parents. And the grandparents. They are trained for a race to beat others so that the shine and rise for their parents, so that they can bicker, among others, about their elite genes. That’s all. The free souls are not free from the beginning. The homes, all homes, are not less than animal farms themselves. Orwellian animal farm was macro level. But this is micro level institutionalization of domestic farms all over the world where children are raised and trained to be domesticized competitively.
‘Lonely roads, God only knows, he’s grown farther from home, he’s no father,
He goes home and barely knows his own daughter.’
His Highness is at His Lowness for some time now. Or maybe it is the lowness that persists the highness and moves around and it all is monotonous. Absurd.
‘Now you’re in each other’s face. Spewing venom in your words when you spit ’em.’
Wait. Wait for your time. Your destiny. To arrive. It is all about waiting. We – the spectators of our own lives – are here to wait only. Wait for the green light. Wait for the queue to shrink. Wait in hospital – either on the bed or outside in the corridor. Wait for the kid to grow up. Wait for the meal to finish. Wait for the day to come. Wait for the time to run. It is all about waiting. And we will be judged and punished for waiting. Sometimes, waiting for too long. Surviving in waiting for too long.
‘Look. If you had. One shot. Or one opportunity. To seize everything, you ever wanted. In one moment. Would you capture it. Or just let it slip?’
Obviously, you won’t let it slip. But it will slip, nonetheless. That’s the take. The cake.
‘You can try and read my lyrics off of this paper before I lay ’em.
But you won’t take the sting out these words before I say ’em.
Cause ain’t no way I’ma let you stop me from causin’ mayhem.
When I say I’m a do somethin’, I do it.
I don’t give a damn what you think.
I’m doin’ this for me, so fuck the world, feed it beans.’
Since the beginning, right from the first human, a Prophet, humans are solving problems. In disguise, creating more. Every generation came to struggle against the odds. Initially, it was against giant animals. Then came food scarcity. Then came kings and emperors. All generations led to a failure gradually. So came Noah’s Ark. The world was decided to be flooded and ended for a new beginning. One shot. Or one opportunity. Let it slip with the ark.
‘I promise to focus solely on handlin’ my responsibilities as a father.
So, I solemnly swear to always treat this roof like my daughters and raise it.
You couldn’t lift a single shingle on it, ’cause the way I feel,
I’m strong enough to go to the club or the corner pub.
And lift the whole liquor counter up ’cause I’m raising the bar,
I’d shoot for the moon but I’m too busy gazin’ at stars, I feel amazing and I’m not.’
More will come with the same struggles. More philosophies will be written down to solve the same old problems. But a single philosophy will not turn down the tyranny or fascism. Words and books and philosophies will be hailed and remembered in the libraries. That’s all. Nothing will change anything.
In the end, it is just a race. From birth to death. Death doesn’t matter but neither does birth. With a little this and that here and there, everything is almost similar. A little less or a little more but the same food in different utensils. With same mental trauma for everything, the whole previous generation is raising the next one to be the same one so that they can also be traumatized in due time. What else is the option? Nothing. There is no option. The whole design of the Matrix is either kill or get killed. And this race always ends with death.
‘His gift is a curse, forget the Earth, he’s got the urge to pull his dick from the dirt. And fuck the whole universe’.