12
For Mirko
I am a trap. My body is a trap into which I fell on the day of my birth.

                 Франц Кафка

Declaration of Incompetence

We live in a mad age. Constantly. We hold a high opinion of ourselves and our surroundings, but in essence, we are insignificant. Time relentlessly crushes us, history revolves in an incredibly perfect circle, and we—intentionally or unintentionally—despite knowing the trajectory very well, forget to learn anything from experience. As a consequence, we are devaluing as a civilization. We forget why we are here. Or perhaps, we never truly found out. Justifications and extenuating circumstances are our favorite tools. Finger-pointing is the favorite exercise of civilization. The mirror does not exist to reflect our own actions, but only as a means to satisfy low passions and vanity. In our spare time, from the comfort of our homes, we fight for justice, equality, and freedom. And freedom is a disease, friends. A virus. A comfort zone. From that position, we create a false future, empty stories for our children. The play "12" is a declaration of our incompetence. Incompetence! Just a pale option amidst spiritual corruption. Are we here only to tell our story? I have my doubts. How much does a human life cost? I believe in the will to survive. But not in extermination. Is faith enough? Can we even believe? And in whom? Perhaps we are not that important. We could vanish in an instant. Rage is a bland misunderstanding. A bridge to the island of betrayed expectations. The play "12" is a preface to all our failures.