You have more in common with giraffes than greek gods.




I want to gather every ad and stuff them inside one of those TV-shopped blenders. Then I want to fold their scripts into a huge ass origami and throw it further away than any arm can reach.

Metaphorically, that is.

I have a thing for violence you see; a thing where I shiver at the sight of oil and limbs mixed together and throw flowers at every aggressive bumper sticker I see.

In other words I can’t stand it.

Nevertheless I have to do something when I see bottles and brands parading as if they were heroes, knights arriving to liberate us from our worthless piece of shit existence. Because they are no more heroes than the conquistadores shoving natives and noble savages into sugared cages of depression, no matter in which imperialistic can they choose to store their strength.

But still their power continues to grow.

Image: Coca-Cola Company.

Image: Coca-Cola Company.

Still we worship them, throwing ourselves at their feet as we reach for a way out of frustration. Still we close our eyes and say yes sir and diamonds are good because they glitter.

I say screw it. I say accept that at least part of you is still the same animal you were before those market segmented fingers started playing across your spine.

I say accept the fact that you are indeed natural, and not the decaying piece of plastic you’re wrapping around your skin.

This is not a piss in the garden.

On the contrary it may very well be the hardest thing to put yourself through.

Because we repress this fact; deny the voice telling us that we are indeed animals, spending every second of our lives working, fighting to extinguish every sign of our naturalness and mortality. And they use this, strike when the repression is fading and we get a glimpse of what we really are. Because it is terrifying, realizing that you are both a social creature and an animal, and that you actually have more in common with the giraffe and his wobbly legs than the Greek gods we have been breastfed images of.

It is terrifying, getting a glimpse of something you have been taught to kill off since you first smelled your feces and told your mother you were not too sure about the smell.

They use this fear, this insecurity, until we become but flopping dolls alive only to keep the system rolling. And we are not dolls. We are goddamn human beings, created in the dirt from where the seeds grow to become trees of fucking everything; a place where we were once free from strings and three hundred feet neon philosophies, a place where no one but ourselves said how we went about to become what we needed to be.

And we can go there again, live as freely as we once did, if only we accept the fact, embrace that we will always carry this animality inside of us.

Because if we accept that we are mortal, creatures created just like the monkeys throwing fruit at sunburned tourists, we will not need their quasi-strength anymore, and we will not need to hide. We can be what we want to be, look like we want to look and mash our berries with forks if we want to. And then their power can disappear into thin air just like that huge ass origami.



 {I am a snow leopard.}


(Visited 1 times, 1 visits today)
The following two tabs change content below.
Rasmus Hammarberg
As a philosophy student, I am taught to question everything around me. As a media criticism student, I am taught to do the same thing until my eyes can only be held open by those straws stirring my midnight coffee. And to question, we have to examine, have to dissect every cobblestone and empty can of soda, rip apart our world only to piece it together backwards, our fingers making silly shadow figures on the brick wall we were born to unscrew ourselves from. You can find me on Facebook, at, hunched over philosophy papers at my local coffee shop, and perhaps even under the dirt you keep trying to brush from your patio. Also, Through the Crescendo now has a Facebook page. With love and peace and all that makes us human, Rasmus

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *