Imagine a world where a man spent his time being deliberately confused, and run ragged by all sorts.
Or maybe not all sorts: maybe just some sorts.
And then some really good friends – and I have to be cautious who – discovered the truth of this poor man’s unseen life. And so they decided some decades ago to see if they couldn’t counteract the casual evil being committed.
They couldn’t tell the truth, the truth they had discovered, because (at least in their judgement) the man in question – whilst intelligent enough – wouldn’t have survived the shock of knowing that everything, which all these years he’d sensed had been happening to him, was actually almost quite entirely true.
So instead of telling the truth, as in the event they could easily and safely have done, they decided to make amends for the evil of their masters by using the same techniques as their masters had used – but on this occasion, rather for the better: in order to change the future and fortune of the poor man’s fate. Whilst all kinds of techniques had been used cruelly against him, the techniques aforementioned were essentially neutral in design: and they realised, quite quickly, that – with a tweak here and there – there was a pretty good chance that great success, both material and spiritual, could eventually be landed at his door.
And at first it did seem that the success they anticipated was holding out for their all too clever project: he began to climb out of the pit, into which the casual evil they’d identified all those years ago had deliberately gone and dropped him.
But then they suddenly realised things were going quite wrong: the poor man in question had learnt how to react and defend himself against all subtle attempts at nudging him anywhere.
Even where these attempts were now quite benign, he was utterly unable to see their good intentions.
The techniques, for him, had become utterly unneutral: a toolbox of torture, every living moment of his life.
A toolbox of torture, where surviving became his only existence.
A toolbox of torture, which his friends had considered useful – and because they had thought this very consideration, he ended up seeing all of them as anything but friends.
And the truth of the matter is that the toolbox had been used for such a long time, it eventually circumscribed his whole life: from the early Sixties of his birth, the casually evil had not ceased in their attempts to continue to carry out their experiments.
How could, then, those people – who believed themselves his friends – have even contemplated the possibility of releasing him from this prison, so casually and coolly in this way? The ever so cool release from the downward spiral into which his being had ultimately headed, and as a result of all these games …
And so how could, then, his friends have wondered it feasible to use the very same toolbox of torture to – invisibly – make amends?
Where was the ownership and the honesty and upfrontedness? Where was the frankness? Where was the sincerity? Where was all that stuff, and so much more? Where was all that humanity which – surely – all real friends would’ve seen as some minimum and goddamn given?