The Festival of Dead People

On the last two days of the old year, 2017, I saw them doing the wrong movies. One was “Ikiru” by director Akira Kurosawa. “Ikiru” in our poor Albanian is adding “to living”. And living, for Kurosaw, is to do something with enthusiasm and commitment, as a human. The great Japanese director condemns the slumbering bureaucracy, where things creep and crawl for never happening. Bureauocracy is essentially nonhuman, even antihuman. And so, I blow the minds of people working there, stole their lives, their breath, their desire. He's got 'em. Kurosawa's leadership, after learning that he has cancer, comes out of his nap and decides to live. But since recreation does not entertain it, he decides at least to do a proper job from the institution where he works. He builds a park with the effort of a persistent man.

In another film, with six different stories, there is also one man, Simon Fischer, who faces a similar, deaf, blind bureaucracy. He takes a car out of the way of what we know as a <x0mmeroma from”. But his complaints are not taken into account. His preference for office neglecting him is costing him a loss of work and a divorce from his wife. We see how, the swallowing of injustice becomes an obligation, the failure of which leads to shit. But Fischer does what a man has to do when facing injustice. You don't accept them. Revolving. He blows up his car, parked in the shelter of cars that were taken from spiders because of parking lots where parking was not allowed. This act of terrorism alone makes the bureaucracy blind to the eye and looks beyond the narrowness of the office.

Both the narrowness of bureaucratic vision is also the narrowness of the existence of our daily taboos and habits. Moral order. Soul extinguishing occurs both on the streets and at home and in cafes. People don't see beyond that would have sad narrow borders. And so they become nonautics, not counterfeits, like the goods we buy on our second-hand market every day. This spirit of death is seen more than ever on the night of the New Year's reception.

It was the inability to transform with such a dying spirit that made Matteo of the film “The Best of Your” commit suicide on New Year's Eve alone. The largest number of suicides in the world, up to 1 million on average throughout the year, occur on the very night of the new year. On the night that life appears so strange, sad, ugly. You may have heard of hundreds of thousands of victims of the terrible war in Syria, but not even the annual suicide rate. Did you say why? Well, I hope that's not read by people who are trying to wear their heads off. Or drunk people. Or by people who want to hear about it.

A nonautic life is a wasted life. Broken. A man who dies, leaving the impression that he never lived, feels no pain. A mobman, an office worker, however good, is replaceable. Only outside the crowd, as a solitary person, being irreplaceable, is it pained by other people. A beautiful pain that also gives life meaning. Nietzsche puts it bluntly: The superman will be born from a nation of hermitarians. Not by the crowd. And also, the “has a right that you can't take the other person's life, but no right you can't take yourself.” Yes, why not die if you think that's right. Better to die than to forget and fake. Unfortunately, in Kosovo's grace environment, suicide is one of the strongest signs of life. But drunkenness and conformism are even worse than religion. Sign of death.

The death of no family member has hit me as much as Matteo's death in the Best of Your”. Or, no real event has caused me greater pain than the last pages of the book “Brothers Karamazov”. In a certified autism test, surprisingly, those who felt pain for fictional characters rather than for real people were regarded as autism. If that's the case, it won't be for normals and their pain. And for the desires that realize these pains.

The year 2018 will be no different than 2017. We have to give up our parents. We adults knowingly admit that this ridiculous figure does not exist, but in unconsciousness we tend to believe in something unknown, chance or destiny, or some extranatural intelligence. That's what makes all of us separate from the Iron Santa Claus. Because, the father-in-law of 2-3-year-old children, and our unformated fathers we expect, they have a difference only in shape but not in content. The superstition remained more powerful than ever for people with narrow mental boundaries.

It is sad to see a family constantly performing the same scene, with superficial changes, after each passing year. More than a party for a better year, it looks like a sight for the death of a year we could live in. For our joy is not pure, it is false. It's just to say. Because you have to. Because that's what others do. They sit, they drink, they get drunk, they get forgotten, they wait. But as we wait, life happens. And we finalize our death.

The evil of this culture is not criminals, as is commonly thought. Or party breakers like Matteos. No, they're the greatest good. They're the biggest people, as Nietzsche puts it in “Converting all values”. The evil of this land is the perverted people, the counterfeiters, who with an animal ferocity try to play scenes that create the sad sensations of eternity, through the formation of the same acts, through an invasive culling of what they say.

As whenever you see people joking again, saying the same words as in heavy bureaucratic slumber. The only important thing is to get up to the hierarchy. Have a better position. Like in the animal effort of our ancestors, monkeys, to climb to the branches.

Nc, it takes war. Continued Fight Against Mental Borders!