Article by Wagner Hertzog

Nicolae Ceaușescu was the brutal and hostile dictator of communist Romania, from 1965 to 1989, when he was forcefully deposed by a popular revolution, and sentenced to death along with his wife. Getting involved in communism while he was very young, slowly Ceaușescu rose through the ranks of the communist party, assuming power when Gheorghe Gheorghiu-Dej, then political leader of Romania, died in 1965. 

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Initially not a harsh leader himself – on the contrary, gaining some popularity for taking apparently popular stances –, within some years of government, Nicolae Ceaușescu proved to be a cruel and perfidious tyrant, eager to implement severe and aggressive measures to restrict the population. Consolidating a political police named Securitate, Ceaușescu managed to control literally everything within the country’s borders, and rapidly suppressed freedom of expression, freedom of the press, political opposition and consolidated a centralized control of the means of production, which would eventually took Romania to the verge of collapse.   

Being a rude dictator with no real political or administrative skills, Ceaușescu’s government proved to be disastrous for Romanians. Increased corruption, economic inefficiency, catastrophic financial decisions and an intransigent rule more preoccupied on its authoritarian and repressive stance, as the basic means to secure his unlimited and unrestricted power, caused the country to experience a horrendous and abject decline.  As a result, the quality of living for the Romanian population, as a whole, suffered a dramatic downfall. As an obvious consequence, basic goods like food, medication and hygiene products entered a period of severe shortage, which threatened to disintegrate the country completely. 

Like these measures weren’t terrible enough, Ceaușescu always increased the level of brutality and repression. The cult of personality promoted around him also increased dramatically over the years. His birthday was considered a national holiday, and Romanians forcibly had to smile all day long, since appearing sorrowful on this day was something too dangerous to contemplate. So the population in general had to fake a level of happiness they didn’t really felt, only to survive.

In 1989, the Romanian population had become saturated with the oppressive effects of a terrible, inhumane and dogmatic tyranny. Freedom was something they simply didn’t have, to such an extent that people really wanted to rebel, feeling apathy at the best possible evaluation, concerning the possibility of state reprimand. Like a pressure cooker ready to explode, people simply wanted to get rid of the regime. They couldn’t endure oppression anymore. When Ceaușescu did his final speech, which entered history, as the crowd openly manifested scorn and aversion towards him, screaming, interrupting and explicitly disobeying him – with the exception of people in the front row, composed of members from the communist party, strategically placed there to appear that Ceaușescu had, at least, some level of popular support –, it became obvious that the complete dissatisfaction and the total rejection the population felt towards him was too dangerous to be faced directly. Ceaușescu, like the coward dictator that he was, searched for shelter in the government building, along with his security personnel. Nevertheless, the popular agitation that soon followed was easily repressed by the state apparatus. 

The revolution that started some days earlier in Timișoara – which Ceaușescu mentioned in his last speech –, evolved to a national conflagration. Then, millions of Romanians, encouraged by the fact that so many of their comrades were eager to fight, became determined to overthrown the tyrannical regime, and to depose the dictator. Soon after, the situation escalated to such a dramatic extent that even the armed forces didn’t have the courage to face the anger of the populace, and the commandeers-in-chief rapidly switched sides, doesn’t even trying to save Ceaușescu and the old regime, that seemed destined to be disintegrated by the popular upheaval. 

When the insurgents invaded the government building, Ceaușescu and his wife managed to escape by helicopter. Nevertheless, they were eventually captured by the police, and handled over to the military. After a puppet trial, both were killed together by a firing squad. It was the end of communist rule in Romania, and communism then was turned illegal.  

With a mediocre theoretical view of communism, that was never taken seriously by the intellectual elite, Ceaușescu was, at the best possible evaluation, a terribly insignificant individual, that, as a statesman, was a vehemently incompetent politician, whose greatest “quality” as a dictator was his authoritarianism, that managed to project only suffering, misery and poverty over the nation. His insignificant legacy, practically nothing to the Romanian population and to the nation as a whole, is reduced to a sordid past, that no one is interested to revive or to remember.   

For those who may not know, Lee Harvey Oswald was the man considered to be the assassin of former US President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. But was he in fact the man who killed the former American president, committing the most controversial murder of the 20th century? The most probable answer to this question is no. Definitely, its completely implausible to think Lee Harvey Oswald has anything to do with the murder of JFK. For this question, just allow me to affirm that 75% of Americans do not believe Oswald was responsible for the murder. Or, at least,  that he acted alone.

The fact that all independent investigations conducted by the respective agencies, namely the Dallas Police Department, the FBI, the Warren Commission, the Secret Service, and the Assembly Murder Investigation Committee all came exactly to the same conclusion points only to an obvious but very disturbing fact: a conspiracy of enormous proportions, capable of encompassing all spheres of power, at the municipal, state and federal levels, which is not something implausible to think. Therefore, those who wanted President Kennedy's death were individuals who inhabited the top of the governmental pyramid, having at their disposal full powers and ample resources to plan and to execute one of the largest and most controversial conspiracies of the 20th century. However, even though the plan as a whole presented severe discrepancies, at every stage of their proceedings, on one point they were perfect: they found in Lee Harvey Oswald the most convincing and persuasive of all scapegoats. A man who not only fit in with all the arduous demands of the task, but, in a short time, defined for himself a past that was perfectly aligned with all the risks and consequences of what would become the most conspicuous, sordid and intricate plot of all time.

After living for almost three years in the Soviet Union, and having absorbed - and nauseated - the Bolshevik philosophy, being a former Marine, Oswald was a very disturbed young boy, deeply resentful of American politics. With a somber personality, sometimes arrogant and furious, Oswald, with his authoritarian and egocentric character, was a man hated and feared by his neighbors, and despised by his co-religionists. Nevertheless, Oswald had dubious connections with the CIA that until today have never been properly clarified. Besides this part of his life being terribly nebulous, and being fully enveloped in, at the very least, recalcitrant doubts, everything is done so that the truth does not become known. Conveniently, two days after assassinating President John F. Kennedy, Oswald, while being transferred from the Dallas Police Headquarters to the penitentiary, was assassinated by Jack Ruby, a nightclub owner. Oswald's murder was broadcast on national television, seen by millions of people just as it happened, due to the television channels that covered his transfer. For his part, Oswald left life to enter an infamous chapter of history.

The fact that the Warren Commission deliberately intimidated, neglected, and threatened witnesses whose testimonies did not support the theory of the lone shooter is at least intriguing. A factor that was never properly clarified but constantly ignored and conveniently swept under the rug. Another issue that could never be fully elucidated was the trajectory of the projectiles that shot the then President Kennedy, completely incongruous with the place where Lee Harvey Oswald was in the final and fateful moment of the tragic incident. This fact shows the inherent and eventful evidence that presents Oswald not only as a strategic scapegoat, but also as a mindful pawn, ready to be sacrificed as an ingenious part of a sinister plan.  

What I think is one of the most interest facts to investigate about this exceedingly intriguing case is how much Oswald knew. He really knew something about the conspiracy? Or he was completely ignorant about it? He was fooled to participate in it? He knew some details about the plot, and was then deceived by other plot members, who were already planning, behind his back, to eliminate him in the first place? What is really necessary to comprehend is how much involved he was in the assassination of John F. Kennedy.    

And let's not forget that when talking about Lee Harvey Oswald, we are talking about a young boy, who was only 24 years old when he died. Who has seen things that no one will ever see, and heard things that no one will ever hear. In a single moment, I believe Oswald is innocent throughout this story, but to believe that he acted alone is to accept what they really want to make us think. It is to accept passively a historical exaggeration and an immeasurable mistake, which only propagates the defamation of a lie that never had all of its points properly connected.

Article by Wagner Hertzog

In the current state of affairs, what is going on between North Korea and the United States summarizes a belligerent tension that has been going on since the end of the Korean War. A war that, in theory, never ended, since North and South Korea haven’t signed a peace treaty. In 1953, the two countries agreed upon an armistice. But as Kim Jong-un intensely expands his range on power, the United States plays an attentive role against the communist regime, ready to defend its allies – Japan and South Korea – if the government in Pyongyang dares to commit any type of aggression. So the USA would be ready to defend them, and to retaliate.      

With North Korea developing its nuclear program, they pose as a direct potential threat to their neighboring countries. This is a potentially problematic situation, as military tests with missiles had already invaded the maritime and air space of Japan and South Korean in several occasions. With one of the largest militaries in the world, North Korea is not a power to be despised or underestimated. Nevertheless, despite the projected initial difficulties, it is quite obvious that, in any prospective scenario concerning a possible war, the United States would emerge victorious. A conflict would be so damaging, that it will inevitably result in the total obliteration of the Pyongyang regime. The entire Korean Peninsula, as an obvious consequence, would then be guided and directed by the Seoul government. As a consequence, Korean unification would inevitably be the final outcome of the war.     

The problematic role of China in the conflict is another major issue. While they are trying to intervene and to intermediate peaceful negotiations, Beijing haven’t supported the USA in any way. On the contrary: they haven’t ceased to do business with North Korea, and imposed only a limited joint of restrictions. But in a general evaluation, their relation continues in the same path as always. Nevertheless, it’s quite clear that China wants to avoid friction with the Pyongyang regime, one of their best clients and commercial partners.  

This raises another important question: in the case of a war, in what side Russia and China would stand? It’s difficult to say, but quite obviously, they would support North Korea. In what grounds, or in what basis, it’s impossible to say precisely. If only logistically – which would be improbable –, this would not undermine the American possibilities of victory. But with a wide open military support, this implicates in an overall exchange of scenarios, and the conflict could escalate into a third World War.  

Speculations apart, there is hope of a peaceful solution? It’s impossible to affirm precisely. But as the tension escalates strongly and disproportionately on both sides, it becomes inevitable to think that eventually the war of Korea would inevitably resume, which is something terrifying to think. We have two opposite forces, with two completely different objectives and agendas. For Pyongyang, the main goal seems to secure the survival of the regime. For the USA, the principal objective is to guarantee the security and the regional integrity of its two main Asian allies, and, as a natural consequence, the salutary principles of democracy. 

As the tension explodes, and China tries to remain neutral, but pending more to the North Korean side, the world still doesn’t know precisely how to evaluate or what to think about this scenario. The ideal is that no war would be deflagrated. But we don’t live in an ideal world. 

Evidently, in any case, a war would be a disastrous achievement. Despite the fact that it would bring about an inevitable result concerning the end of the totalitarian Pyongyang regime, and a closure to the situation in the Korean peninsula, the carnage that would come out as a consequence of the war – taking into consideration the fact that modern weapons and nuclear ballistics contains a massive power of obliteration, way more horrendous and destructive than in the fifties, when the belligerent tensions between the two countries had begun – would probably be unprecedented for any outcome in a military conflict.  

It’s impossible to say or to evaluate precisely what would be North Korea’s next move. But by judging the behavior of its dictator, Kim Jong-un, possibly everything beyond ambitious and arrogant.        

The unforgettable glorious ocean of infinite winters is the pale endless extension of a cold anesthesia, that seeks between the worlds of a ludicrous barrier the solid eyes of justice that perpetuates a lonely calmness within my soul, easily conflagrating worlds of undefined reason over a conscience of undying virulence. Nevertheless, these winds never flow over infamous temples of occasional glories. 

Parallel to these monuments of stolen voices, ignored statues of confused chaos swallows laws made of lethargy, the static apathy of an infamy produced by late storms of anger and drowsiness. Where they will go, and with what specific purpose?  

Since these days of infinite deception forgive the impetus of the black wind declining over the dying repentance of my mortal anxiety, I renounce the anticipation of my general irritability. Resounding over a dark sentiment of incongruous stigma, my position will be forever restored by the dark winds of my eyes. 

In all of this tiredness, the evasive subtleties of an ineffable cold keep worlds of unreality distant of a sincerity that never existed. And what can I reclaim, besides the fact that today is incredibly cold? And has always been so terribly cold and perpetually empty. 

Horrendous days of tumultuous forgotten beauties from sleepy times were ostensibly obliterated by the simple exhaustion of existence. Rationalizing in the evident storm of an invisible possibility that keeps my mind dormant and distant, the shadows in the vicinities of an infinite horizon soon demanded the world that I inhabit to be converted to smoke. If I align myself to the exact intolerance system that is inherently attached to my life, I will never be the same person again. But I certainly don’t have to think about these ordinary ambitions. I would never see the spring of a lifetime attached to the essence of a primitive deception again. 

The sky that I hide behind the oceans of my fears would never be taught in public schools.   

Virulent days always begin in a sordid discrepancy of nature. 
What am I doing here? These reckless days soon will be distinguished in the vicinities of my overwhelming sickness, where there is no peace, and the painful intensity of my improbable journey are eager to be fulfilled by dark and violent impulses. 

Some days could be higher, but my soul is lower than its antagonistic paradox. Only a few days before, and this system of inadvertent sleepers, on the colorful tangential zone of a never-ending humane sagacity, would definitely fade away. And this eyes, impregnated with
genuine vivacity, would soon demand real life over its horizon of false condolences. 

The different days can only make sense when survival is on the crest of a wave that never sleeps. If I survive on this rainy day, how can I be deeply distinct from everybody that I know? 

It's cold outside and it rains. These falling achievements of mine do not contribute to anything, to revive entirely the integrity of my soul. Thus, this falling world is restricted to several zones of dying rivalry.    

Every day empires in my eyes contemplate ruins and precipices of no absolute value. Impregnated with deterioration, in every empty day, an immense darkness, and the most horrifying silence of all, is afraid of everything that I consider essential to keep living. So, silent days gets stronger, and silent days pass away, at the funereal corridors of all the empty hours. 

I do not want to contemplate anything, but I can always remember sincerely the corrosive unhappiness of the intermittent days of obliteration under my eyes. And I only forget the primordial suffering and the monotonous silence that seems to be everywhere inside this invisible line of misery. Everyone is expected to control the situation, and eventually, every day will be contemplated by surreal flames of agony and flagrant declarations of hostilities. But a cold darkness engraving abysses in foreign territories will acknowledge the deleterious campaign of a defying allegiance of barbaric truculence, for all of us to see.  

The days do not come out of nowhere, and as I proclaim, we can expect normal principles to die first. And they shall become the engine capable of virtually expanding the rise of exhaustive memories, the bad weather of all the things that I could forget without leaving home today. Maybe I should not have left home.

All this rain is the phantom of a soul that never goes away. And it seems that the days, in their inability to remain irresolute, forgot to soften the spurious inclinations of the variations of all seconds which does not allow the maintenance of a machine that never ends life in a human scene. Or the trail of useless days that never inhabits the empty ruins of my heart will only listen to the prejudices of my words? As a matter of fact, before this day is finished, I have to recollect the dubious certainty of my invisible existence. 

The hours of my exhaustion simply persevere against everything that is out there. 
I get out of bed more tired and exhausted than ever. And among the major things I’ve learned in life, there are no human beings capable of understanding my tiredness, which transcends everything that is the most fateful in this world, and outside of it. 


For others, perhaps I'm just a slacker. Pernicious ignorant individuals, they will never see me in the highest days. They never heard of anything related to the scream of my animosity, or anything consecrated to the sentimental exhaustion that I have left from this point onwards. And I just don’t want to teach them this eccentric effect of the human nature. Obtuse individuals are mostly irrelevant defenseless patriarchs of nothing. 

I understand the pathologies that hurt humanity, and makes existence more degrading, precarious and difficult. The human being, by a legitimate evaluation, is a machine that is always collapsing, be it physical, mental or both, but the vast majority of people are not able to understand this, because they are all irrelevant and ignorant hordes of lethargy, completely devoid of any reasoning ability. One of the fundamental truths about human beings is that, although they consider themselves to be superior, they’re not. For the most part, they are simply animals driven by lust, instinct, primitive conditioning skills, or by the weaknesses of emotional impulses. 

This is depressing because a lot of people don’t have the ability to learn to act as a decent human being, with potential to exert the ability of rational thinking, or to develop their mental and cognitive potentialities. I understand very well the pathologies and infirmities that hurt humanity, and the abnormal integrity of its deficient functionality, while the vast majority of people are completely unable to do so. Of course, this is also due to the fact that I have a superior point of observation, unlike the vast majority of people. It is very easy to criticize me because I look slow, lazy and silent.

The gray eyes of the citizen of dust are looking towards the sordid conflagration of a mindful spirit that is never tired. The criticism is never intended to defy the ordinary principles of a prominent degradation. Everything becomes a latent description of sanity. The universal axiom of stupidity that gets close to the human eye invariably meets the sign of irreverent intransigence in an interesting question of resistance.  

But I became speechless at the end of the everlasting night of my dreams. The rest of this industry of human remains cannot even confirm how pleased I became when I’ve decided that I simply wasn’t there.

All human beings, without any kind of exception, are ignorant? Not only the night was repulsive, the most disgusting of these repulsive attitudes closes the night in an eternal alliance of mortally wounded vicissitudes. But what I think is the most disgusting aspect about human beings is how ignorant they are about their own ignorance.

Well, one thing is certain: after I erratically became stranded in the overkill of my nightmare disbelief, the night and its shadows definitely closed its curtains on me. And I never became the subject of any criticism again. 

This point of my life could have been better explored, I think. But in the end, they never accused me of anything. I was just a shadow in the wall, a visitor from anywhere, an incongruent individual that simply vanished in an ordinary day, destined to go to a place nowhere to be found. This wasn’t me, after all.  
 

Pol Pot – whose real name was Saloth Sar – was the dictator of Camboja during the Khmer Rouge regime. He implemented a communist government, that brought to Cambodians an excessive, horrendous, virulent and perfidious level of violence and brutality, never seen before in this history of the small southeast nation. This occurred during a period of tremendous social and political unrest in Cambodia, marked by several coups, transitional governments and ephemeral regimes. Civil unrest was caused also by turmoil in neighboring countries like Vietnam, that was inevitably felt in Cambodian soil. Vietnam was at war, and communism was spreading rapidly in several southeast countries.

In 1970, Cambodia was a monarchy, and royal king Norodom Sihanouk was deposed in a coup by General Lon Nol. An anticommunist, Lon Nol led a brief government, that tried to contain the advancement of the Khmer Rouge. Despite his efforts, the Khmer forces eventually gained power and complete control over the country in 1975. The Khmer Rouge regime, which would be also ephemeral, despite its four years brevity, would prove to be corrosive and disastrous for the country.    

At first a shadowy figure, Pol Pot emerged as the terrible force behind the communist regime. Determined to restore in Cambodia the greatness the country experienced in the distant past, with the primary goal to achieve the same level of glorious splendor the region had conquered in ancient times, Pol Pot was interested in conquering the idealized majesty established by the civilization that built the fantastic and monumental temple of Angkor Wat – one of the most beautiful ancient sites in Cambodia –, and a great source of inspiration to this principle. Like every communist regime, horror was brought in with the best intentions in mind.

To achieve its goals, Pol Pot initiated an ambitious agrarian project. All the population living in cities and urban areas were compulsory conscripted to work in collective farms. Everything western or deemed to be western was considered an evil influence. As a consequence, it was viciously eradicated. This was applied even to medicine and medical procedures in general. The Khmer Rouge viciously demanded entire populations to be relocated to rural areas, and then cities were completely emptied. The agrarian projects were developed for the country to be self-sufficient, and to rely on its own productivity to sustain the population. As a result, Pol Pot forbade any goods to be imported.    

The Khmer Rouge regime was brutal and totalitarian. People would die from starvation, exhaustion in the forced labor camps, or disease. The regime also brutalized each and every sign of opposition. As a result, state repression and violence was widespread. A reign of horror, brutality and aggression brought to Cambodians a period of absolute despair and hopelessness. In its ephemeral and brief four years run, it is estimated that the Khmer Rouge was responsible for the genocide of approximately three million Cambodians. According to some estimates, there are approximately twenty thousand collective graves spread throughout the country. Neighboring countries, like Laos and Vietnam, were also dealing with communist regimes.  

As the chronic instability in Cambodia was exceedingly intensified – and this was a symptom invariably entrenched to Cambodian politics, like everything established before, the Khmer Rouge regime was destined to perish. In 1979 Pol Pot was eventually overthrown. His genocidal regime brought tremendous social, political and civil unrest to the country and, with the subsequent conflagration of a civil war, the regime could no longer sustain itself.  Khmer Rouge members that escaped to Vietnam formed resistance militias, backed by Vietnamese military, and a war between the two countries was declared. 

The Khmer Rouge regime came to an end, as rapidly as it rose to power. Pol Pot has fled to the countryside, and continued acting as the main leader of the Khmer Rouge, who, over time, lost national political relevance, remaining only a local leadership. Pol Pot never faced any charges or criminal prosecution for crimes against humanity, although before he died, he was under house arrest, for having ordered the execution of a former auxiliary.     

Pol Pot died 72 years old, in 15 April, 1998, in a district near the border with Thailand. 


Wagner

Death and dark times are always into creating something.  
Constant guests for the valuable greed of the worst sickness humankind has ever seen. But I still think the worst sickness is the deadly pestilence of an involuntary consciousness. This is the end of a time that has never seen the opulence of a great impenetrable light. 

After all, this infatuated syndrome of aggressive behavior was never intended to exist, though I could be exceedingly relentless, fustigated by days of overwhelming sadness. Relentless I will be. Ready to die by an increasingly desolate starvation for life. 
 
Sometimes I really feel the immaculate overwhelming sadness that I seek; all 
that I have left is an exhaustion that keeps the sky under my head unannounced and cold. No energy and an infinite tiredness contemplate the starlight skies with an infamous prosperity that never ends. No energy will ever be allowed to compromise the principles of my salutary comfort. 

Only a perpetual restless feeling that never ends anticipates the calmness of the truth. When the major elements of an incontestable truth are predestined to seek the glory of its own splendor, all humankind can persevere through the embrace of its own deleterious war of destructive hostility. This restless mind that speaks over these ludicrous extemporal engravings of valuable principles overcomes the night that runs endlessly inside our souls.  
 
One day darkness will come to close the night. The night barely overcomes
What exists inside the realms of this life. What conclusion could I possibly get, except that I'll never really be the light that hides inside of me? 
 
These times overcomes a falling truth that renounces a sorrow desperate to portray the pain in human eyes. As the night overcomes the sorrow, a true night will always portray the darkness of my old days. The night will always be inextricably attached to my old days, destined to abandon my fallen undisputed disposition behind me for good. 

All these noises bring back the anger of ancient agonies. All these old days are perpetually trapped in frustrations that will never be as old as the universe upon which I am inserted. The fact that I want to explain that night and day is dying, and a mordacious sickness seems to prevail over a malicious overthrow. 

Nothing lasts for too long. All the stars that are bright seem clear in the purely translucent stream of your eyes. No world can understand alone the sickness that feels overwhelmed by a sense of passionate declaration. 



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Nights falling off the sky, what will become of this feeling no longer trapped inside a dream? I came directly to the point of never denying any existence:
I’m positively sure that God knows it all.  
 
Youth and wisdom never walks together. The lucid streams of time bring back a horizon that no longer seeks friends. They are not related, though everybody's amendments do not dare to judge the principles of a time lost in a fearful judgment of increasingly monotonous delusions.    

For once and for all, I dare to challenge unclear thoughts. 
The sky is clear, a system defied by a nefarious institution for which I have never expressed any confidence before. But I don’t reclaim the uncertainty of an imminent closure, for once and for all. 

Planets are everywhere, inside your thoughts, my life, my firm exposure of principles, my desire to reclaim freedom. Inside infinite dreams, inside stories of fundamental mental decay, the declaration of fools persist, nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found. And all I have to say is that dark days are infrequent, always ahead of me, true to their mortal legacy, they stay.

Tiredness and bright sunny days are all over me, never fearful or resentful of any unspoken truths under a blind horizon. 

On these days of major alignment, it seems very difficult to stay happy for a great deal of circumstances. Slavery, intermittent cycles of benevolence, insistent noises of shadows, a vast amount of spurious indolence always relevant when I'm tired of everything.

They made loud noises behind the windows of my backyard grievances. They made loud noises behind the voices of my soul.

Even after several years, even after all these years, everything behind my voluntary sadness precedes the dark days of my monotonous anger. 

These days feels quite the same. Even after these days of unexpected weaknesses the indisposition gets higher and higher; in the empty vicinities of a life where all days are over, finished by a malevolent precarious and imponderable constituency where all evil is punishable by men with a children-like spirit. 
 
When will come to me the end of this morbid life? An unparalleled sickness gets louder than a vicious melancholy. All this loud noises, what they really mean? The slow victory upon which my ambivalence strikes your modest behavior will never feel the omnipotence of my lucid heart. 
 
This hazardous existence makes me awkwardly insane. Nobody can strike my alternative options, as to why I don’t particularly enjoy the meticulously bestial arrangements of life inside the end of my dream. 

And I dream. No dream inside these dreams of mine makes me want to kill these insane messengers of hostility. So all that I can declare, all that I can really say is that life is like a poison. Life is always deadly. And, as a result, only a few people can understand me. 

The pain in life will always serve as a prelude to chaos? Life is a killing category of endless cruelty. Who would not comprehend something so atrociously tragic? A painful abyss of never-ending disasters is a timeless breath that perhaps will be over in a distant future. 

This life of slavery will take everybody down. 
The sky will never be large enough to subsidize or to contain all my venomous fears. The night sky will be filled with deep grief and unhappiness, the assimilation of an unexpected mental misery taking us down. 

The sickness overwhelmed by the bright stars highlights clearly the interference of its own light. And what becomes of this feeling? Life can be so cruel, but that’s just the way things naturally flow. A life impersonated by despair came to know agony. And as far as I know, this majestic element became an acquaintance of me. 

Life became a really long darkness. Life is falling and I am falling. It can be quite hard for me to process this everlasting pain, this everlasting agony that undergoes through the vastness of my heart. Will a new world ever be possible in the everlasting conjuncture of my heart?  
 

Wagner

These were relatively cold and gloomy days. 
Gray and rainy, sad days, and I settled in the atmosphere full of my worries. I do not feel comfortable talking about what I was doing or what I was expecting. Because every day was precisely the same. Always the same. I went down the empty streets of my life to buy some things, in a matter of a few minutes I came back. Everything was monotonous and still the same. I do not feel comfortable writing about what I was doing, or what I was expecting, but for now it's enough for you to know what I am. The days here are always rainy, the sun never shines, and I am always waiting for something. Something or someone that never comes. But I do not want them to think that my days are sad, because they are not. In fact, I did not even know what sadness was until recently. Curious to know what it was, I bought it for free. And they delivered to me at home in a matter of days. 

I was relatively disappointed, it was something small, I thought it was much bigger. So, the disgrace was inserted in a gentle letter, sent from a distant planet. Suddenly, I’ve noticed they had pointed out the eternal skies that were the real ambivalence of my heart. They gave me the wrong life to live? Suddenly, I was a miniature of myself. Suddenly, reality wasn’t capable of making any sense. That's all of a sudden. I do not own the ones who know everything that I love. Another interesting thing about the intricate universe that I am marvelously compelled to describe is the brave solicitude that seeks in my soul the despondency for a voluntary personification of reason. 

I left the omniscient sickness of my personal dark days at the bottom of my reflex. Since the shadows of my voluntary analysis had no practical functionality or purpose, I left all those useless days behind my sentimental stream of memory. Nevertheless, I can positively say that my days were not sad, I did not even knew sadness until I saw the shadows of my imponderable thoughts. Outside, the rain never stopped, and the sky was always dark. In the night a dense fog took refuge in the most intense chasms of dawn, and I woke up apprehensively, wanting to check upon everybody, until I remembered that I lived only with the sinister ambivalence of strikingly forgotten shadows. Then I would get up to take a breath, and watch the dense and gray perpetual mist that every morning returned to the window, involving my world in a timeless black labyrinth that whispered the eternal night into my life. I stood there, paralyzed by the free hostilities of the night, alone, but relying in the strength of my principles, albeit feeling vulnerable and frail, reiterating the nocturnal sickness of my private world, thinking and reflecting, but never with a plausible capacity for concentration, or focus, or rational objectivity. 

I felt like an afflictive nighttime specter, a man lost in the dark expansion of his own night. But this always happened, it was common, after having those sinister impressions on the mists of night. So I went back to sleep, and when I woke up all things were exactly as before. Everything was monotonous, tragic and abysmal, and when I woke up, it was just me alone, as always. The days went on endlessly, filled with lethargy, and the monotonous quietness of the weeks guarded the effervescence of my latent anxieties and impulsive disturbances. 

Well, I have to conform, I think. If this is how life works for me, if this is the functionality that governs my life, if the gears of my existence stand in this way, who am I to disagree? I justified myself this way. And so the days passed by, in the forgotten emptiness of a cold day monotony. These days were all and the same. Always greyish and anxious, followed by virulent and distressing nights, always accompanied by a dense and deleterious fog that seems predisposed to capture me every night, but mysteriously, never takes me.


​Wagner

Today the earth is black, doesn’t matter what you feel, I can see. 
And tomorrow will always agree with the solitude of my soul. 
No righteous or virtuous children would ever be capable of understanding my evident selection of preferences, not even my conscience, so to speak. Nor a good-hearted splendor will seek the sun brightly infusing life over this inexistent earth. 

Maybe the shadows of resistance will no longer remember what I see. Darkness will remain visible seeking through the darkest horizons of my eyes. The pervasive unhappiness of my terrestrial eyes would trigger thoughts of foolishness and desire able to prevent rage and malice in the sentimental devices that I contemplate before my personal world of anxiety, affliction and uneasiness. 

Can good songs heal the soul and distract the heart? If the convoluted shadows of disappointment strongly affirm that the invariable sickness that protests over the revengeful stagnation of my audacious disappointment will provide the attestation of a nefarious infestation of inexistent realms, then these peaceful days will inevitably be over. My restless years will start to disappear. So I think, perhaps, that this would be the inextricable result. 

But it’s not correct to complain. The mordacious confluence of my sincerity can drain thoughts of serenity, as well as external pacts of melancholic ambivalence. 

The antagonistic healing of a suffering that never leaves. These answers will no longer understand the content of my soul. At least for a considerable amount of time. Relegated to a mortifying silence, no one would dare to declare the dead of the night to be my hostile impatience.  
 
Tomorrow will be the day that the whole world will stay black. 
Tomorrow will be an especially indefinite day. We can never rest at the dissemination of an evil horde of incongruous maleficence. Now we are drawn to a time where it is impossible to set back. I understand tomorrow will be as fragile as a cloud in the sky. Tomorrow I will seek the eternity at a hole in the sky.  
 

Wagner