Chapter 5: Zarb is not Real

Zarb is an Ironic Persona

I must confess that this whole text, the entire thing, was just a joke. I just made all of it up. “zarb,” is a pseudonym I use. I perform under this pseudonym because it dissociates me from the art that I create, which allows me to explore any kind of subject matter I want without stigma. This entire text is really just an elaborate piece of shadow work.

This is the power that irony has. I’m sure that you, the reader, under the impression that I was being sincere, actually began to believe some of the nonsense I have filled the pages with. This is precisely the mechanism by which the current political climate in the west radicalizes individuals to inflame culture wars.

First introduce the ideas to individuals in an ironic manner, as anything sincere nowadays is far too much for your average individual to mentally metabolize. You plant the seed in their mind by making your idea appear as some kind of joke. Humor tends to “soften the blow,” so to speak. But subconsciously, where the judgement mechanisms of ego-consciousness aren’t at work, the seed grows and the individual slowly begins to believe the ideology you’re trying to implant in their brain.

This is the magic of the age of information. The more you understand the mind, the more you can manipulate it, and more importantly, the more you can manipulate the mind’s of others. Memes, copypastas, sayings, slogans, are all methods of indoctrination.

“zarb” is not real. “zarbworld” is not real.

Zarb is Real

Amongst everything that I have written in this text, there is one thing that I need to confess. There is something I need to get off my chest. Sometimes, I do feel real. There are times in my life, where I feel so unquestionably real, so real that it is surreal.

When I put concepts onto paper, I don’t necessarily feel real. When I plan for the future, I don’t necessarily feel real either. When I sit in silence, it’s like I am in the process of “checking.” I am checking to see if I feel real, and oftentimes I don’t necessarily feel real.

When I was in high school, I was fascinated by the idea of lucid dreaming. I would research on the internet how to do it, and I would try to practice it. One of the tips that I came across while researching is that if you suspect that you’re in a dream, count your fingers. If you are dreaming, you won’t be able to count all your fingers and that will make you aware that you are in a dream, which then makes the dream lucid. The irony is that since learning this, I've never actually applied this tip while dreaming. I apply it while I am awake. Sometimes I feel so unreal, that I actually look down at my hands and count my fingers. And everytime, I manage to count all ten of them, on my hands, where they have always been. And then I know that I am indeed not dreaming. That this really is it. That despite how unfeasible it is to articulate how it is even possible that I am here, I am here. Despite everything, I am here.

But there are moments where my preoccupations are completely forgotten. Moments where my body becomes completely transparent. In those moments, I feel real because I don’t feel unreal.

When I work on something that I really had to put effort into and it pays off, I feel real. When any of my friends tell a joke, one that is truly a direct reflection of their spirit. One of those jokes that could only make me laugh if someone of their facial mannerisms, their cadence, had uttered it. In a moment like that, I feel real.

When a car cuts me off in traffic, I feel real. When I say something that wasn’t particularly charming, and the subsequent cringe I feel in the direct aftermoment, I feel real. When I am kept up late at night, because a particular action that I have done has failed another person, I feel real. There are people who I owe apologies to. And when I am reminded that I may never get the chance to apologize, I can feel the crushing weight of my own realness. I can feel myself pinned under my own reality, and I am forced to face my own humanity

“Realness,” exists in the nooks and crannies of mundane life. There isn’t one big thing, or one big moment, or one big idea that determines the path you take. It is determined by the most mundane, boring, and concrete parts of life. It is the smallest steps, taken in consistent succession, that determines your trajectory. This is the hardest thing for me to accept. The fact that this is it. This is all there is. There isn’t a special trick, there isn’t any reliable workaround, no fantastical element to reality. It is just that you are human, with no satiating explanation as to why you’re human, and that you have to learn to cope with your own humanness, and that you have to put one foot in front of the other if you are to begin to feel even remotely okay with the fact that you are real, and human.

And so I must confess that I am real.