The Industry of Advice
Prostitution is the oldest industry. Same service, different perfume. Self-help also walks this path. It existed in the times of my father. And his father. With the same message. Get up early. Go to sleep on time. Do the work you said you’ll do. And this has been told a million ways. By a million and one people.
Hundreds of years later. Today. Self help still exists. Available within a couple of taps. But now, it’s deeper. It’s implanted. Neurotic. It’s mental masturbation at its finest. Get up at 4 AM. Dunk your head in ice water. Go for a 5-kilometer run. Meditate. Journal. Eat Organic. Free Range food.
Self-help turns you into a busybody. Buzzing with tasks. Bragging about them. But getting nothing done.
It’s Schrodinger’s cat. Dead and alive at the same time.
Its duality is unmatched.
I know this, because I’ve done this. I have walked the walk. I woke up at 4 AM. Tried journaling. Tried writing down my thoughts. But ended up staring off into space. Ink drying at the edge of my pen waiting for an epiphany to emerge.
Self help says every little tick of the clock needs to be optimized. With a task. With no moment to rest. To gather oneself. To reminisce.
This is no human life. It’s an assembly line. One thing follows another. Till the end of time.
In this economy of advice. Let me offer mine. Let people have a moment. Putter. Roll around in bed. Wake up with the sun. Or after it. Light a cigarette on the edge of their bed and chug a fifth of nearly expired Vodka.
Live your life. And let others live theirs. Don’t preach. Don’t advocate. Live.