I love to tell a good story. Especially when it happens to be true. The false ones are okay but it takes a lot of commitment to lie from beginning to end. Also, my fake stories are usually meant to humor the listener and I usually snicker or giggle by the end of it. But the true stories are the best. Especially when they happen to me. This is one such story:
When I was young my parents forced me into an institution against my will. It wouldn't be until years later that my parents would inform me that they had no choice - leaders from the state had imposed such requirements and parents had no other option. The institution would send a bus to pick me up and the dread would fill me like dread has a way of doing. I remember the concrete walls and the adults in charge of me. Some of those paid to watch over me were decent but there were a few who honestly hated children. The days at the institution were filled with lectures and work. I don't know if our paintings by hand were sold on the black market or merely brought home for the amusement of those adults but it was made clear to me and the rest of the children, held against our will, that our artwork must be completed. At meal times we were lined up in a column and ordered into another building where we were given a choice of regular milk or chocolate milk. I always questioned the smiles we would see when we were asked which milk we would prefer. I would always offer up an answer and then wait for the adult's reaction. If there was any indication of pleasure on the face of that adult I would hastily change my decision. The days seemed to last forever once we were returned to the interrogation rooms. They would seat us in little chairs attached to a wood tray type device and we would be forced to study symbols for hours at a time. Over the course of many years we would come to understand that these symbols were connected together for some type of code which allowed communications with others. We also learned certain symbols and markings could be strung together in a language which allowed for various calculations we were told we would need later in our training. We were conditioned to respond to loud bells and forced to listen to endless speeches from the adults who would stand in front of us and preach about these communications with symbols and varying degrees of complexity in using the markings to bring different results with the symbols. Some of us would accomplish these mundane tasks and we would be rewarded with advancements in our training. These "rewards" would only mean more work and lengthier lectures with different adults. Our minds and bodies would be conditioned by these state workers until one day we were given our freedom. This illusion of "freedom" would begin an even lengthier sentence in the outside world where our conditioning would bring us into terrifying hours of menial labor in which we would be granted payments based upon a monetary system based upon a pledge of a bankrupt government that promised some imaginary backing to some type of paper currency. Myself, as well as a large part of the population, forced by the state to endure these institutions, have been altered on the conscious and subconscious level to continue adhering to their control. Our parents, also part of this broken and systematic derailment of mental stability, helplessly watched their young indoctrinated by these state institutions under the guise of "education" and "structure". The freedom I barely remember seems so far away and so long ago. As I said, I love to tell a good story. And the best ones are the true ones. My name is Rueuhy and I approve this blog.
On a side note - it was while riding on one of the vehicles of the state designed for the transportation of little ones such as myself at that age, that a funny thing happened upon being delivered back to my parents. The bus ride home usually lasted around an hour and it was on one such afternoon that the passenger side wheels of this bus came off and we were slammed into a ditch along the road. We had to leave the bus using the emergency exit at the back. Like I said, the true stories are the best ones to tell.
When I was young my parents forced me into an institution against my will. It wouldn't be until years later that my parents would inform me that they had no choice - leaders from the state had imposed such requirements and parents had no other option. The institution would send a bus to pick me up and the dread would fill me like dread has a way of doing. I remember the concrete walls and the adults in charge of me. Some of those paid to watch over me were decent but there were a few who honestly hated children. The days at the institution were filled with lectures and work. I don't know if our paintings by hand were sold on the black market or merely brought home for the amusement of those adults but it was made clear to me and the rest of the children, held against our will, that our artwork must be completed. At meal times we were lined up in a column and ordered into another building where we were given a choice of regular milk or chocolate milk. I always questioned the smiles we would see when we were asked which milk we would prefer. I would always offer up an answer and then wait for the adult's reaction. If there was any indication of pleasure on the face of that adult I would hastily change my decision. The days seemed to last forever once we were returned to the interrogation rooms. They would seat us in little chairs attached to a wood tray type device and we would be forced to study symbols for hours at a time. Over the course of many years we would come to understand that these symbols were connected together for some type of code which allowed communications with others. We also learned certain symbols and markings could be strung together in a language which allowed for various calculations we were told we would need later in our training. We were conditioned to respond to loud bells and forced to listen to endless speeches from the adults who would stand in front of us and preach about these communications with symbols and varying degrees of complexity in using the markings to bring different results with the symbols. Some of us would accomplish these mundane tasks and we would be rewarded with advancements in our training. These "rewards" would only mean more work and lengthier lectures with different adults. Our minds and bodies would be conditioned by these state workers until one day we were given our freedom. This illusion of "freedom" would begin an even lengthier sentence in the outside world where our conditioning would bring us into terrifying hours of menial labor in which we would be granted payments based upon a monetary system based upon a pledge of a bankrupt government that promised some imaginary backing to some type of paper currency. Myself, as well as a large part of the population, forced by the state to endure these institutions, have been altered on the conscious and subconscious level to continue adhering to their control. Our parents, also part of this broken and systematic derailment of mental stability, helplessly watched their young indoctrinated by these state institutions under the guise of "education" and "structure". The freedom I barely remember seems so far away and so long ago. As I said, I love to tell a good story. And the best ones are the true ones. My name is Rueuhy and I approve this blog.
On a side note - it was while riding on one of the vehicles of the state designed for the transportation of little ones such as myself at that age, that a funny thing happened upon being delivered back to my parents. The bus ride home usually lasted around an hour and it was on one such afternoon that the passenger side wheels of this bus came off and we were slammed into a ditch along the road. We had to leave the bus using the emergency exit at the back. Like I said, the true stories are the best ones to tell.
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