They call you an occupier, they call you a psychopath, they call you a rashist, they call you a fascist, they call you a putinist, they call you an orc, they call you a rapist. Oh, one wishes for you to be something other than a human. One denies believing that you would wake up in your bed, go to the bathroom, pee, wash your face or take a shower, that you would yawn a couple of times and look at yourself in the mirror. Maybe you would smile at yourself, maybe you would pull a face of regret after the new day would not bring you the long-awaited beautiful image of yourself to the reflection.
Oh, one denies believing that after you would go to the kitchen, open the cupboard, and look for coffee, check the refrigerator, take out a spoon, heat up the water. One denies believing that you would sit down at the table, put the phone aside and start sipping the hot drink thinking about your way to work. Oh, one denies believing that you would buy a ticket and get on public transport and get to the office, or that you would stand in a traffic jam in your own car while listening to some hip hop or classical music, or maybe even an audiobook. One denies believing that you would greet people at work, shake their hands, or just nod to someone, or maybe even spit in someone’s face. Or that you would sit in your chair at the table and click something on the keyboard, or that you would scan items at the cashier, or that you would fill out forms and applications, or that you would make calculations and designs, that you would lay bricks or cook porridge, or that you would draw letters on a blackboard, or that you would look for the guilty and the right ones, or that you would be solving issues and discussing them with others. Oh, one denies believing that after all this day you would go back home and rest in peace. Or that you would warm up the pan or order in, that you would swallow your food, drink tea or beer, have sex, and then sweet dreams, and so on until the next day comes. Oh, one denies believing that you are an ordinary person.
After all, you must certainly have two horns and flames coming from your mouth, so that while you are sitting in the toilet and pissing after night, you would have that proud grin after reading news on how “Ukrainian Nazis” were killed in this and that number in this and that place, and next moment you would be unrolling toilet paper. Oh, one wishes hard to label you with a fascist tag, dress you up in a uniform, and think that you have swastikas stuck all around your house, while you simply measuring your usual portion of coffee from an ordinary bag. Oh, one wants to think that your madness allows you to speak only the language of the madmen, whispering of borshch and secret laboratories, and not politely greeting your colleagues like anyone else in the world. Oh, one wishes to belive that every day you watch Putin portraits and lay your prayers next to him, and not that you sit steadily 8 hours doing your job. Oh, one wishes to see you spending hours on raping boys and girls, filming it and showing off your special skills on social media, and not you quietly jerking lonely in the corner of the bedroom before going to bed. Oh, one wants to know you are an infernal evil that is always on a hunt for victims to make them fall beneath its lies, and not you sleeping peacefully at night. But in reality, you are neither an orc, nor a rapist, nor a psychopath, nor a putinist. Unfortunately, you are a human. You are the human, too. You breathe the same way, you eat the same way, you sleep the same way.
There is only one detail that made the course of history bend. You believed that you couldn't change anything. You cut off your hands, on which humanity carries its instrument of Freedom, called Responsibility. If you are not responsible, then you do not decide anything, then you do not change anything, then you depend on others, then there is no Freedom. Since there is nothing more for you out there, Thinking becomes a very useless exercise. The Thought will only hurt with those memories of you being a dynamic changing living Being. The Thought would drill a hole of guilt for the fucking years of your own fading and stupidity. It would execute you as soon as you would spot another human, able to afford the luxury of Thought. You will go into your warm collective swamp of humans who decided that Thinking is harmful, and the foam of reciprocal approval will come out abundantly on their lips. It's a pity, but it's incurable. It's not the problem of either ideas, or one crazy person, or hidden plots, or migratory contagious pigeons. It is the belief that you are a tick, and the tick neither thinks nor decides anything. Oh, one wishes to believe that you are a tick, but for the fact you will be a human until the end of your days, and you will have to Think.