There once was an author who wrote about construction. He had long, curly hair, wore a baggy shirt and he had a tattoo of Bob Marley on his leg.
He wrote about construction with great passion. He wrote, “my lovely island is becoming a capitalist’s plaything. Down with history and up with phallic skyscrapers!” His favourite phase, which he used so much he thought he had invented it, was “Malta’s national bird is the crane.”
When he wasn’t writing (no one got to see what he wrote, only heard of it) he was protesting outside the developer’s offices. He protested by playing bongo drums, because, everyone knows, music can bring down the Man. It is well-known that John Lennon brought down the Berlin Wall and Bob Marley brought equality to Africans all over the world.
Of course he wasn’t as talented as John Lennon and Bob Marley. But he played bongos with his eyes closed, so the author must be passionate.
The author helps write slogans for the protest, too. DOWN WITH THE RULE OF DEVELOPERS. WE WON’T DANCE TO THE DEVELOPERS’ TUNE. DO NOT BURY US ALIVE. At night, as he prepares his maybe-vegan dinner with lots of chia seeds and quinoa, he feels proud of what he’s achieved.
His protests and slogans won’t stop a government that won two majority landslides, but he can feel proud for trying and being on the right side of history. Mother is proud of him. He happily puts himself to sleep by smoking a joint that will ensure he forgets what day of the week it is tomorrow. But what do the days really matter, man.
The next day – whatever day it is – the author visits a migrant detention camp. He is teaching English to all those men, women and children, braver than anyone on earth, who have crossed deserts and wild seas to come to the island where, after all, the island’s national bird is the crane.
Why are all these migrants coming to Malta, the author often asks himself profoundly? Why not stay in Africa where, sure there is poverty, famine, rampant corruption, perpetual civil war and persecution – sure there is all that, but at least they have Mother Nature, they have their bongo drums, their ancient dances and the humility to live close to the earth.
Malta is a developmental hell. It is a gravesite where giant, concrete monsters are rising from the ashes. Africans should stay in their home, where true beauty lies. But yet they come here, why, why is Malta such a paradise for them? The author just can’t figure it out.
He is of course glad to have so many African migrants here. Without them, he wouldn’t have anyone to fight for. Without them, he would have no identity. And of course, without them, he would never have learned about the bongos!
The next day, the best thing that could happen to the author happened: a building collapsed not far from where he lived. He felt giddy. He went on site and saw people crying; he wrote about their crying. He saw people filled with anger; he wrote about their anger. Later, he went home and blitzed his social media pages. He spewed out rage, righteous values and anger towards the nameless government. Of course, fellow curly-haired, joint-smoking, apple-cider-vinegar-drinking people replied and commented. The author felt like a little Jesus on a pedestal.
Naturally, if that building hadn’t collapsed today, no one would have given a second thought to the author. And, let us be truthful here – no, let me write Truth with a capital T – if that building hadn’t collapsed, what would the author have to write about?
A man who is in love with Nature – capital N, of course – never has time to write about Nature. A man who worships simplicity, humility, kindness, always writes with anger, haste and terror.
Our author is a contrarian, he is a proud outcast, a rebel, a perpetual outsider. After all, no one wears flowing, colourful clothes like him, no one has Bob Marley tattoos, no one smokes joints and binges on chia seeds like he does. There is no one like him, society doesn’t like him, and that is how he is happy to have it. Him and the twenty-thousand others like him!
The following day, the author wakes up, has coffee, puts on his phone and begins his routine of flicking through his social media walls. A story catches his eye.
A woman has been denied an abortion in Argentina and now she is in danger of giving birth to a stillborn. The girl is only fifteen.
But wait, there’s more: a woman is claiming she has been sexually harassed by a bus driver. She claims he cat-called her and shouted out ‘Lily’.
Why won’t people, the author thought, be left alone, why can’t they be allowed to express themselves, be who they are, why does society bring them down rather than empower them? Empowerment, of course, that is what the author is all about.
He’s read all about empowerment. He’s seen it on television, he’s seen respected therapists, liberal-hearted politicians, teachers, actors and other authors speak all about empowerment. We need to be who we are meant to be. This is Me sums it up – yes, we are the This-is-Me generation. We all must be free to express ourselves at all costs.
Unless we are in any way discriminatory.
Another story catches his eye on his phone. A fellow author, a person our author thought was a friend of his, has spoken out against abortion. I thought he was liberal and pure, the author thinks! Now here he is saying that life is sacred. I thought he was an atheist! Here he is saying that fetuses should have a chance at life.
The author made sure to comment on his post and that would be the last time he speaks to him or anyone of his kind. He will not speak to anyone who doesn’t think like him. Of course, he believes in freedom and empowerment. Anyone who thinks differently is an enemy of goodness.
He spends the rest of the day lost in writing. Now, dear reader, let’s make it clear, our author is not a writer of prose or fiction; he is a writer of blogs and poems. He writes blogs and poems that are free from the shackles of art. His work, his creations, are borne to serve a purpose.
Art is secondary to the Truth. Art is the voice of progress. Art is the slave to progress. Our author is the happy prostitute of the Truth. Without all the ills and injustices of the world, he would be a mere joint-smoker. He knows it well, too, dear readers.
Later that night he goes out for a few drinks. His fellow-minded, Nietzsche-reading, capitalist-hating friends have brought along someone new.
She’s a girl, only twenty-two years old. She’s a budding writer from the south. She comes from a poor background, full of neglect, social deprivation and is the daughter of a macho father who would rather spend his time gambling than helping spread the word of Truth.
The author’s friends like her because she is a working-class girl with a radiant talent. Of course, the author and his friends are wealthy enough to be able to admire poverty.
But, after all, her background, her story, her supposed talent – none of that explains why our author has such a hard-on for the girl.
Lust is mightier than the virtue. #YouToo, dear author.