This pressure. It won't let up. It can't let up until I do something, something important. I write because I can't keep away. A voice keeps nagging me to keep on doing this, to never give up on what I have to say. The censors hanging above always, the ignorance hanging above always. The imago of Thailand in the minds of the rest of the world. We're marketed as an alternative to porn. For the price of a porno mag in the United States you could get a fresh body here, trapped and ignorant.
The cultural project of the SEA isn't what is happening for the people who would be publishing them. What would a young, modern person do with that? What fantasy is this that I'm reading, that has nothing to do with my life. Another preaching tale, and the right, the authority to tell them, to hand them down like gospel. The young, the old, the imaginary pictures of the perfect country side on television and movies. Occasionally they would point at some city offical, but never in name, never in what's really going on. In fact, it's hard to know what's going on when the truth isn't valued, is protected all in all by threats, when whatever you write isn't held up to any kind of accountability, when government officals, teachers, civil servants are never accountable to what they give because to challenge them would be death, censorship, or jail.
How can you truly write, with this hypocritical bubble floating around your head? It's floating around like a giant cloud of pollution, acid rain killing everything.
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