Before the prophets of the world poured their wisdom into a text-box with limited character-capacity the words that hit you squarely in the gut were often found in dodgy spaces.
Every local bar, tavern or bake sale gathering had their own herald of infinite knowledge.

In a dodgy dive not far from where I grew up The Wisdom Tsar reigned supreme as the keeper of the key.
The guardian of life’s most profound truths.
The Tsar was a god, he was more than a king, and way too bloody damn cool not to be called “The Tsar.”

Speaking in a voice shredded by a 100 000 cigarettes and low quality alcohol strengthened the power of his messages.
You could ask him about aliens and conspiracies against war veterans.
He new it all.
Almost!
The facts he eschewed were hardly noteworthy anyway.
His steed of choice was a dark red Ford V6.
Even his car dripped, no… oozed masculinity and life experience was etched in the patterns made by cracked leather seats.

Everyone listened when he spoke, because there was no mistaking his crusty voice of authority.
But everyone knew he really cared for all his disciples and hardcore fans.
He knew all by name.
He knew everyone’s most intimate secrets and worst fears.
And he never spilled any beans.

When you dared to disagree, a “Well Fuck lad, let’s hear it then” signalled your turn to speak.
Woe be to your mortal soul if you challenged The Tsar simply to get attention.
His rabid protectors were a phalanx of Stoic musclebound goons not to be trifled with.
But if you had lost the light in your eyes, or the song in your heart … The Tsar was there for you.
More often than not he helped you sort your shit without even giving it a thought.
Because he knew your name.
And he knew your Mother and your younger sister.
And throughout your ordeal you felt a tight grip where he was holding you, lest you fall into the pits of hell.
Legend has it he could bring you back from the depths of hell if he had to.
Because he’s been there so many times.

Ok, so Twitter didn’t really kill this man.
The Tsar is still alive, and still preaching, but wherever he hides these days the room is surely filled with dull eyes transfixed on little screens.
Words of wisdom pour forth from their devices.
Everyone is now a King!
Watch them, because they won’t notice you.
Observe them…
Dripping with exaggerated intellect, and faux wokeness.
Even those who did hear the words of the true prophets disappear in the huge cracks left by vast sludge dams of constantly regurgitated drivel.
The true voices of our generation venture into this ocean at their own detriment.
Because nobody cares to teach a new generation of disciples how to set the ego aside for a while.
And the new disciples only bow to the god created by their own number of followers.
Yes…
There they sit…
Typing, deleting and creating even more derivative soulless content each time they have a go at someone.
Their audience doesn’t look them in the eye, nor does it care.
Their enemies care even less.

For somewhere down the line we traded the raw and gritty sweat of true conversation for comments on homogenized daily outrage and faceless opinions.