Parece-me que afirmações que alegam não existir bem ou mal, interpretando que tais qualidades são subjetivas (embora possam ter seus valores compartilhados em sociedade), são paradoxais. Podemos observar que desconstroem a universalidade desses conceitos, anulando o geral e valorizando o individual. Porém, uma vez que que se nega a universalide do bem e do mal, constrói-se outra: a de que a subjetividade de ambos é universal.

I don't know how to explain this exactly, but I feel like I don't belong. Here, I mean. I feel like I am not a part of what is happening now. As if I were exterior to "reality", or as if I were, indeed, not a part of this. I'm sure it sounds strange, but I don't know how I could explain it more clearly. I feel to be "getting lost" inside myself and therefore, losing myself. Like I could actually escape from myself. I feel I am something different than everything else around me. I feel like an outsider.
And when I look to what surrounds me, I cannot understand what is it that actually surrounds me. I cannot feel it or even conceive it. It all seems strange, it all seems.. unreal.
I look myself in the mirror and try to figure out if what I am seeing is what I understand to be myself. I touch my reflection on the cold glass in a pathetic attempt to reach and maybe grasp myself. When the tip of my fingers feel the glass, I look at it, at that point where glass and finger meet and see that it does not feel like I am the one touching the glass. It feels like I am watching myself do it, like I'm seeing my life in third-person. And as I stop to think about this, this third-person perception of life and of myself, I come to realize that my thoughts too, are external to what I understand as myself. They do not feel like my own thoughts, but rather like thoughts of another person, which I can "listen". They are in my head, but almost like an implant.
What I can see now is myself looking at whatever, because my vision, too - and my senses - feel as being mere implants of someone else's sight.
I can't explain it very clearly, because the feeling of not being myself has come under the influence of itself, making the feeling feel not like someone else's, but another third-person view of my old third-person perception. I am re-creating myself more externally with each depersonalization that I suffer and am now no longer what I don't understand to be myself or what I do understand; I am now thought only, having strived too far from my original self.
Therefore, I am only the result of one's being, and no longer a being. I am dependent of this other being, who is actually myself, from which I have derived so far. Nevertheless, no matter how far I have gone from the actual myself which I think to exist, in order to still exist in thought, or at least to think I exist in thought, I must exist somehow, but still having come from myself. If this is true, than I am the myself which I believe to once have been and am actually not far from that self, but just myself.

"Oooh, baby, you set my soul on fire!", shouts the cocaine-addicted, soon-to-be-dead pseudo-rockstar. You can barely see him or his tight, brownish-red leather pants through all the smoke. If you're not careful, you'll probably trip on some face-down semi-dead junkie or the spilled whiskey or beer or vodka or, well.. you get the point. There are some long-haired girls wearing fake Indian dresses and fake Indian earings and fake Indian necklaces. They're smoking marijuana with their eyes closed, in a trance. I doubt anybody can enter a trance with all this noise. There's two homossexual couples having sex on the pool table. One of the girls constantly looks around the room. My guess is she's just doing this for show, but who cares? The keyboardist is pounding the keys with his forearm and elbow while the guitarist starts to punch his guitar around the pickups.
Right next to me, a black man and an asian girl are very close to dragging me into their sexual activities. I can tell by the way the girl's looking at me, then looking down at the man and laughing and looking back at me. At this point, I get up and blow the mist of smoke around me to see that one of the girls that were at the pool table is now sucking the singer's dick. He's moaning on the microphone and people are finding it "groovy". He starts to undress the girl and lay her down. They're going to fuck on the stage.
I go in the kitchen only to find out another couple having a "good time" on the kitchen table. I ask if any of them have a lighter. The girl tells me to check the back pocket of some jeans on the counter, next to the sink. There's nothing but lint. I rather not interrupt them again and just light a cigarette on the stove. When I walk out of the kitchen, Dana, the mother of the rock'n'roll idol asks me if I want to get a drink upstairs. In her room, she emphasizes. Now, I'm not one to lie to look cool or anything, but I inhaled some smoke, blew it sideways and asked "Have you got any Scotch?". "I've got everything, baby. Everything you can imagine" she says.
On our way upstairs, I see my ex-History teacher shooting heroin on the steps. I put my hand in my pocket and find a small bag of pot. I take it out and offer some to Dana, to which she replies "Oh, you're a bad boy. You make me so hot I could fuck you right here and now", while biting her lips to look sexy, I guess. We keep going untill we get to her room. The place looks like a palace. The bed is red and velvet. All the details are gold. She takes off her panties without taking off her skirt. I rolled a fat one and put out my cigarette by the bar. She's on her knees and hands on the bed and asking if I'm coming or what. I stand at the edge of the bed and get a rubber from my wallet. She asks what's taking so long and I tell her. Then she says "Oh, honey, don't worry about that. We can have a beautiful child and name it Rainbow or Happiness." There's no point in arguing with her. I say "Fine" but put the condom on anyway.
Twenty-five or thirty minutes later, after, according to her, she's cummed twice, her son comes in the room, saying "Mom, have you seen my stash of hash?". The red blanket's on the floor and we're both lying on the bed, naked. Rock'n'roll rebel here gets furious and gets a 12-gauge from behind the bar. I should get a little nervous, given the fact that the gun this kid is holding is probably bigger than him. I get out of the bed and try to look scared and anxious. I'm not, but only because I know that a wanna-be bad-ass like this will never shoot anybody. "Peace and Love, huh?", is what I'm thinking about saying. "Now, hold on, Derek, we don't want to do anything stupid, now do we? Come on, man, there's no need for this, man. Just put the gun down so nobody will get hurt, ok?" is what I actually say. "Who the fuck are you, asshole? And how the fuck do you know my name?" is what I get for an answer. At this distance, I bet anything in the world that I can get the shotgun out of this prick's hand and even punch him in the face. I'm not a fighter or anything, but this kid is more scared than I am. I say "What do you mean, how do I know your name, man? You're a legend. A God of Rock, man." He gets out of his macho-holding-a-gun pose and says "Tell you what, kiddo.. Kiss my dick and I won't kill you." I say "I'm not gay or anything, but I've always wanted to do that. Just put the gun down." He puts the gun on the bar and starts to unzip his pants. I punch him right in the middle of his stomach. He curls on the floor, holding onto himself like his guts were falling out. I pick him up and choke him just untill he goes unconscious. I have sex with his mother again, who, at this point, is already on a rocket to the fifth dimension. Then I pull Derek outside by his feet and write "I HATE NIGGERS" with a marker I found in the living room, on his chest and leave him naked on the porch of a house that has a sign, next to an American flag, that says "SLAVERY NO MORE". I got lucky. I'm really not violent or anything. It's just that sometimes I feel like doing weird stuff.

Espero que eu continue esse negócio.

I'm walking down the stairs in a dark alley. It's raining. If you can pin a place on fear, this is probably close to it. Lights are twitching and the swooshing sounds of cars can be heard. This is a cliché. Gray steps, gray walls. Full of cracks. I wonder what caused these cracks. Nature or man? Wind or gunshots? I don't have time for this. I reach the end of the stairs and I can't feel every single blood-cell going through my body. I can't feel my heart pounding and sweat coming down my forehead in slow-motion. I just can't see or feel any of these things. There's not enough poetry or movies in my life. No metaphors or subjectivism. Nothing will explode whenever a bad guy points a gun at somebody. That somebody dies. Families shall grieve. Explosives shall not go off.
The glass is yellow but probably not yellow at all. It's probably just the lights inside. It's transparent. I wonder if the color of lights has actually changed or just my thoughts. I wonder what is light. I have to kill six guys. This is really not the most appropriate time and place for this. The doorknob is gold and I'm not really sure why, but I'm grossed out by it. I feel like many unwashed post-bathroom or post-sex-with-a-hooker hands have touched this knob.
I twist the knob with my sleeve and the door slowly opens. This opening of the door, despite what I said earlier, did seem pretty poetic. As the door opened, the noise turned down. Gradually. Open door and silence. Confusion.
One, two, three, four, five, six. Six, five, four, three, two, one. I'm guessing these are the guys. They look at me, I look at them. They look at each other, I look the room. The light switch is just by the door. Finally a movie scene for me. There aren't any tables around, so I'll just lie down. The second guy on the left pulls a semi-automatic. Poetically speaking, that shit shoots fear.
I get a good look at where all the men are standing.
Click.
The lights are off, I'm on the ground and fear is already coming at me at more than a hundred miles an hour. These people don't even know me, but they'll kill me. That's hypocrisy, I don't even know them and I'll kill them.
There's me. On the floor. With six heavily-armed men shooting. With the lights out. Thinking about how there is absolutely no silence here. I can't see shouting faces when the shots are fired and that small speck of light appears. There is no classical music playing and the shots can't be heard. I can not withdraw from this situation. This is as real as reality. These guys are just stupid. They shoot right and left, but never down or up. You'd think they'd learn something from all the action movies they've probably seen. Maybe they like art movies and enjoy reading. Who am I kidding? They're wearing sport sunglasses in a basement and most of them wear more jewelry than old women. Maybe I should just kill them already.
I have eighteen bullets and I'm not the kind that misses. I sound like the kind that is a little bit too cliché, even when not wanting to be. I wouldn't describe the sound of a gunshot as "bang". I think it sounds more like a "pow" than a "bang" to me. "Ka-boom" doesn't even come close to what a bazooka sounds like. Gunshots don't sound like death screaming. They just sound like air being moved at an incredibly high speed. Things are not nearly as cool or mystic as books and movies tell you.
Three shots in each little piggy. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Ten minutes ago, these people had families and whatnot and I've reduced them to meat, carbon and water. This is death. No reaper. No extreme darkness (despite the current situation), no horse with red eyes or walking skeleton. It's you. Minus all the frustrations. This is absolute relief. I like lying down here. I feel sort of peaceful. I don't feel like getting up and turning on the lights. I don't feel like explaining anything.
Call it what you will, "bang", "pow", "ka-boom" or whatever, but as close as my head was to that gun, I'd be lying if I said I heard anything. I'd be lying if I said anything, really.

When was the last time you saw or heard something that no-one told you about? When have you actually seen an airplane fall and not just read about it or saw it on the news?
Your senses have been replaced. Reality has been replaced. It no longer is subject of philosophical questioning. It has been simplified and dismystified.
There's no more intelligible reality, only visable.
And still, we only see and hear. Our senses have been reduced as well. In our own cute aquarium-like society, there is no place for touching. There is no place for tasting. There is no place for smelling.
Our eyes have become our screen to the world. Two small TVs and two small speakers make up our reality. We are merely spectators.
What we see is shown to us and what we hear is told.
Action is impossible. Transformation is utopic.
Our participation in life is not necessary. We play minor roles now.
The people we were actually supposed to trust - ourselves -, we don't. We just ignore our human nature and let everyone else choose what we want and need and desire. We go with the flow, now. We want to fit in. We HAVE to fit in. It's terrible just imagining not having everyone in the world loving us.
Our small box of truth tells us everything. We must not question. We must not question. Hunger, disease, poverty.. That's all okay, as long as I can't smell the rotting bodies or feel pain in my stomach.
News about wars, starving kids in Africa, obesity, AIDS, rapists, pedophiles, murderers, chemical and nuclear weapons and between each one of these, is a fast-food or a toothpaste commercial.
Television and newspapers aren't there to fight the problems. They're there so you can get used to it. So you think it's normal. They flood and saturate you with images and causes and
opinions untill you get angry at homeless people or don't even notice them.

We only react. We don't act anymore.

I was walking down some stairs when right at the corner, she bumped into me. She said sorry and gave that awkward smile people give whenever they bump into strangers. "Pretty girls are just forced to be common. People expect them to act certain ways more than ugly girls. I feel kinda bad for them" I thought, still walking down the stairs. I suddenly felt my coat being pulled by my elbow and turned around. Soft-pink lips, dimple on the left cheek and nice hair. Well but not over dressed. "I'm sorry, but could we do this again? I don't want to be just some girl you bumped into going down some stairs. I don't want to be an ant in your life, you know? Someone you saw and won't even remember tomorrow. Imagine how many really cool or smart or interesting people we see everyday but don't recognize. Maybe some girl you've passed by could've been the love of your life. If only you said hi to her on the bus or whatever.." and she immediately blushed and looked downwards. "It's like we only do stuff to survive and the only reason we ever talk to someone else is to keep our freakshow society polite and completely functional. I don't mean to sound like a weirdo or anything but.." she struggled to find words, but sighed and continued "you know what, nevermind, I don't know what I was thinking. Sorry if I interrupted you or made you late for something. Nice to meet you, stranger."
Should I say "I agree with you" or "you're not really sorry, are you?"?. I chose the first. I thought she'd be more interested if I talked about her. "I agree with you. I think a lot about that, too. Everyone is always on auto-pilot. We pass each other without any human contact whatsoever. There's just no.. hum... warmth, I guess, between us ants. Coincidence or fate, we were both at this exact spot at this exact time. I think that's pretty important. Whenever we feel like talking to someone on the street we think that could be interesting, we should."
The lights on the wall by the stairs grow dim and it feels as only ours face are lit by it.
"This could be the most important part of our lives and we could've wasted it. We could've ignored and carried on, never knowing. I'm glad we met. And I'm not just saying."

Boy, it really pisses me off to see some prick or brainless girl carrying a book, flashing it all over the damn place, just to look smart. Sometimes it gets me down, but most of the times it just pisses me off and I'm not easily pissed. It really makes me sick, you know? No kidding. I hate seeing someone with a book in their hands but not reading it. And you can tell when someone's just not reading the book then and when they're not reading the book at all. They must think it makes them look smart, cos' someone carrying a book these days is kind of a rare sight. It's almost like meeting someone who still buys records, but I guess that's even more rare. Or not. I don't really know. I oughta find out someday.. Compare how many people carry books around and how many people buy records. But anyway, I really hate these bastards flashing books all around just so someone'll come up to them and ask "Which book you readin'?" and they'll probably be reading one of these stupid "airport pocket books" about some rich girl whose parents are divorced and she hates their guts at first, but in the end she turns out loving them and learning "the true value of family". If it's not that, it'll be some love story with a teenager vampire or wizard and whatnot. A load of horse, if you ask me. I'm not gonna lie and say I'm a book addict or some junk like that, I just hate these sunavubitches that like to flash books around, that's all.