Ghosts, monsters…slaves. Many have ghosts from their pasts, monsters in their heads. These often originate as fears, regrets, resentments. They end up enslaving all those who in denial, in betrayal, in cowardice, fail to confront them. Entrapped by self-imposed constraints, the apparitions of the past enthral their deluded hosts.
What offends you, tempts you. What angers you, possesses you. In submission to the lies others live, the depravity of self-condemnation overwhelms. Between hypocrisy and truth, there is tolerance.
Amongst a small minority of ignorant, misguided whites, there has existed or still exists the fallacy that whites are somehow superior to peoples of colour. These unfortunate whites are blinded by their own inadequacies. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The races of colour are the original races, the superior races.
White ascendancy, control, hegemony, lordship, mastery, paramountcy, power, predominance, pre-eminence, primacy, rule, sovereignty, sway – all self-aggrandising, self-promoting fallacy.
In its feebleness, contrivances of power, dominance, supremacy, the white race, hearts and hands too weak, too cowardly, but when armed with weapons louder than their inarticulate voices of sycophantic delusion; the white race, poisoning everyone and everything it touches in its deformity, its malignancy – Abrahamic religion, capitalism, commercialism, industrialisation, totalitarianism; though it would claim immunity in spurious benignity, guilty in fact of every monstrosity, the white race; with certainly more to lose, having either seized or stolen the rightfully entitled resources of the peoples of colour, the white race, the inferior race, a mutation born and borne of weakness, will lose all before their meagre lives are taken.
However beautiful you may be, or perceive yourself to be, if your heart is ugly, you are ugly – hideous, repulsive, grotesque. Monsters are only monsters if they have ugly hearts. All monsters are human. Most monsters, proven, are white.
When does a monster cease to be a monster?
Man is a time only, when himself his flesh and spirit are, created and creator, suicidal resurrection; and in every time a wildness and a wiseness, worse than he is, and better—his comedies all vice, his tragedies all horror of vice, his truth a desperation of extremes.
Is the sweet thing, then, a sweet lie? And the good thing then a sour lie? There shall be sweet things which are true things, and good things which are sweet things—when time on time has cooled the madness which is self, when the sane season comes that muffles greedy joy and shames sagacity to falter.