Sometimes I feel I write such rubbish, why do I write at all? No one will read what I write ever. Then what is the point in writing? Anyway, I think I write because writing is what I do. There are times when I look around the world and see everything wrong. At that moment I know the cynic in me is alive, like right now. When the cynic wakes up…the world seems like a strange place and I feel like a stranger to myself. My cynic is a tall man around seven feet high, he walks with a little hunch and has a scar on the left side of his face. He looks like a Red Indian. He has brown hair tied behind in a rough knot, and his soft eyes show remorse and regret. He has a loud hoarse voice, which needs to be heard, if you don’t hear him he will speak louder and louder, until he is sure you have heard him. He is in his mid fifties and has knowledge about everything happening around the world. He is angry and sad.
According to him, water that we drink is bad, the food we eat is ostentatious, the seasons are not the same they used to be, little children are being raped, the financial stability of countries and individuals is questionable, cholesterol and sugar are all time high…so on and so forth. The world is a horrible place to live in, he remarks. Nothing seems to be right. People are marketing themselves and their skills just like whores and sitting and judging the whores.
Everything that we know is up for sale including a crash course in soul cleansing. Organizations are milking their people dry for performance and numbers, they are making sure their get into the psyche and soul of each individual do a quick repair for greater performance. Everyone is conning everyone into believing their truth, when there is none. Media can be easily bought and the rich can create their own stories and their own history. The poor on the other hand are busy feeling victimized all the time, they seem to have only time for their sob stories. These sob stories also get bought to make some movies and documentaries, which the poor have no clue about. Rich nations are telling stories that they want to, about themselves and show the poor nations in the light they want to show. Everyone seems to be busy creating their own piece of illusion, sitting inside their own bubble. Sometimes they call this bubble, “Perspective”. Everything has been made so damn complicated, the money is complicated, relationships are complicated, work is complicated. Marriages don’t last. Love doesn’t last. People throw their garbage around. I don’t see a single clean mud ground. People with wolves make them shit all over the place and don’t bother picking up. This is the time a big tsunami should come and end this world, he states as a matter of fact.
When the cynic is alive the dark clouds emerge and a sunlit day has all shades of Grey. That day everything seems pointless and fake. He is like a bully, who stops everything that is happening and questions the purpose of it all, not wanting any answers but knowing that the answer is hopeless.
He rebukes the Gullible me and hurts her badly. She sits and sobs. He yells at the Neurotic me and she runs, scrambles to do something with her time. And after he has made his voice heard, the Cynic sits with his face covered in both his palms and turns into a scared little boy.
His little voice speaks between shivers, I am scared of you, I am scared of the world, I am scared of the future, what is happening to me…he shrieks as his shivers increase. I run to him and hold him in my arms…”shh…shh…all will be fine…I am there for you…I love you” I hold him tight and rock him through the night…
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The Colored Mist 
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