Am discovering that past a certain limit of horrifically maimed men, women and children, I do enter a different state of being. An unfamiliar state of being. Oddly more alive, but increasingly more disconnected from other human beings and what tends to be important to modern day humans. Like pretending to be ok. I am not ok and frankly, I really don’t think I should be ok in a world like this. Am not ok, because I have some empathy left. Am not saying that this makes me a better human being. Like for example, I’d be making more money, might have ended up more cheerful and might have made one or two people I will not attract now, happy. Arguably that would have done more for the world than me being heartbroken over Palestinians, Lebanese and Iranians stamped out by the US and Israel. Am not better, just more personally affected by the suffering of strangers. Strangers I know to be entirely undeserving of their suffering. Suffering inflicted upon them by the biggest lying wimps with all the support of anyone with power in the west. I think that is enough to no longer even trying to pretend am ‘normal’.

Chatgpt says my empathy for the suffering is real, but that partially I may also see my father in all these oppressed nations. I understand that as someone who is not well known this is not interesting information to the world. Some self-employed Belgian sitting in Slovakia because of his son sees the same suffering in his father in what is happening to people in East-Asia… I should be shocked that some strangers do read this stuff.

When does long form punk style writing become asking for the algorithm to bury my posts? A few thousand tweets ago. If catching a few big fishes in the ocean of small regular fishes was the point then I’ve already succeeded. A tiny band of endearingly different people living on some different frequency have already found these unfocused spirited sprawling posts. These posts are very me. And they confirm what I already knew. The vast majority of people has exactly zero interest in me. And I don’t blame them, because reading me will not help you renovate your house.

I may have to ask you to check my blog regularly if you are in that rarest of minorities who – according to me – is not obsessed with seeing the same cranked up posts on the same two topics forever and ever and ever and ever.

Or I should throw you together in a group and send you a link.

The 12 hungry meaning seeking misfits I have managed to find after tweeting almost 30,000 times.

The 12 apostles of Aliveness inside the dopamine slot machine.

Fits well with the Jesus complex I got from my Catholic upbringing and deeply moral, yet anti-establishment parents and family. I see the real Jesus as an anti-establishment rebel, later hijacked by institutions to reinforce conformity, repression and passivity.

And by dopamine slot machine I don’t even mean twitter. I think our whole human world is now being calibrated as a huge dopamine slot machine. Twitter is just one of the clearest expressions of this trend.

This is now HUNGRY Notes From the Mountain Fortress.

I added the hungry because it’s the best word to describe what am going through.

Hungry for real intimacy.

Real laughter.

Real justice.

Real mutual desire.

Real fusion with a woman.

An epic crushing final defeat over the hypocrites who bomb children every single day in the name of self-defense.

I wish the worst imagineable pain for decades with no relief, ever, for those who deny a child with leukemia in Gaza to travel for treatment so the child, with a 92 percent chance of survival WITH treatment, dies.

Real friendship. Something I struggle to believe still exists.

Finally freedom to write entirely different things.

In a world where things are going fine I would write very different things.

Maybe a fantasy novel with a real plot.

Maybe a collection of porn stories for intellectual women. (Nothing like that exists, but as soon as I start I lose interest and feel idiotic writing about sex in a world that suppresses everything alive and erotic, yet pornifies everything else.)

A hilarious play playing with the largely harmless pettiness of people.

Parenthood tips.

Odes to my son.

Odes to the thighs of an earth shatteringly gorgeous Lebanese woman I’d only be able to seduce cause am no longer weighed down by absorbing misery that’s not even my own.

Or maybe I would write 80 percent less and finally find a stunning woman, inside and out, to dazzle with minutely organized picnics and romantic surprises.

I could continue posts like this till I have 75,000 words and then do just that.

‘Get a job, get a life, get a wife, get a blowjob.’

Quote by Bruno Paul Peynsaert Senior.

Something that Bruno Paul Peynsaert Junior might one day formulate a variation of.

My son doesn’t seem to have inherited even one percent of my melancholy, and looking back my father was more positive and upbeat than I am, even though he killed himself and I haven’t, so far.

I now write precisely what I’d write if I was living on an uninhabited island, which makes for purely authentic writing, but as soon as am finished I regret that my writing reinforces the feeling that I live on… an uninhabited island.

With not even sea views for consolation.

Just my way of saying I will probably not continue pouring energy into what I’ve been pouring energy into for the past two decades now.