It was all yellow

I have quite a few friends and I’ve noticed that about one third of them can’t listen.

And I mean can’t and not don’t.

They have absorbed whatever is currently floating their boat from some dickhead drunken mate, YouTube or Life Philosophy class, and they are usually very eager to shout you the details.

Their cartoon-like theses are usually rooted in the emotions of their envy, entitlement and alienation. But indirectly mind you; this is all about crafty projection and sublimation.

Not only are they completely disinterested in anything that you may have to share, they don’t even want your feedback on their sharing. You learn to say “that’s good mate.”

They are simply protecting their house of cards by deflecting feedback and avoiding anything but the most facile and spurious application of logic, when it suits them, to make a point.

In a way, I have empathy for them. It’s usually a sign that things have got away from them. At some point they have lost the plot for some reason or another, and couldn’t find it again.

I’ve yet to see one remediate. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, I’m just saying I’ve never seen it. Partly, I suspect, this is because they rarely accept their own situation.

They build a facade of reasonableness and even superiority, based on their rare insights. They are the seers, enlightening us poor deluded wage monkeys.

Without any recognition of their own clanging inconsistencies and shrillness, whence comes any motivation to get well? 

And I say ‘well’ because it’s a sickness; they are all mentally unwell and this I know because it’s making them all unhappy. Quite unhappy, all the way down to the yellow in their eyes.

It’s very tiring, engaging with them. You do it because they are old mates and you don’t just abandon mates when they’re not well. 

But in fact you do, slowly. If they show no inclination to get well, it’s too easy to decrease the frequency of your chats and beers. Until you don’t.

I had no idea why I was recording these thoughts until just then. Clearly, the path to their redemption is writing. 

Writing forces one to a logical construct, if one has any formal qualifications or intelligence. 

If I could just get them blogging then I’d have the ammunition that I need to viral into their system and inculcate the unraveling of their madness.

But the buggers won’t write. In fact they won’t even read the writings of friends. Their madness has its own cunning, and it avoids the illumination of its own delusions.

I find it all very sad.