Selling

I love selling. Whether it be selling equipments, ideas or even ideals. As long as there's another party involved, and it results in a transaction, no matter of what monetary value, it has the charm of selling. Being a gypsy queen, reading from the dregs of Turkish tea or finding fatal connections within symbols is similar to signing a financially consequental deal, while dining at steaks in Maxim's. Different set of circumstances, agreed, but still, at the end, it's to convince the other. The pros need to outweigh the cons. The better the salesperson, the greater the revenue generation. The more captivating the sermons, the stronger the believers. The prophets seem to be the earliest salespeople and God the forerunner of marketing. The product brought with it a divine conviction - a rich reward. But what do I sell, and whats in it for me? (as the contemporary mantra goes) I sell lies. Wholesale, no. Facts meshed with fiction, yes. An outpour - whether welcome or not - in your face. An amoral act. Truth with a twist. And what is truth? Truth is the lie that people happen to want at that moment. Feed it to them, and they will suckle at it like the cooing baby feeding on maternal breast. It's like flirting in the beginning. Feigned interest provokes superificial sincerity. The conviction of a man fighting against his inevitable fate. The garrulous speech and the agreeable smile. The heart beat goes up one knot when the questions are no longer forced but carry an ambigious interest. The card has been played. The bait taken. And the foreplay continues. Until the orgasimic gape from the buyer; the stare that sends titillations all over the body. Another object; another conquest. Very productive. Meaningless - like all things when comapred to the conception of the universe in its entirety. As meaningless as common courtesies - whether in the corridor or the court of law. Moments of emptiness in the Space-Time Vaccuum. As banal as greetings and as perverse as E!. Yet, a part of our existance. Intricately interwoven. As much as a dangling OM, hanging loosely, inconsequently, with Che Guevara in its background. A world of hollow words and ignoble deeds. Of passionate desires and prosaic sacrifices. If only people could see the value in their own dreams.

Hitzelsberger continues. So will I.