The Open Chronicle of “Mentorship”

This is a living, breathing rant. New entries will appear whenever the grand theatre of modern “Mentorship – Awake Enlightened Souls” offers fresh absurdities. Sit tight—the saga writes itself.

Welcome to the golden age of “mentorship,” where anyone armed with Wi-Fi, a semi-functional webcam, and the confidence of a Victorian hypnotist can proclaim themselves a spiritual guru. A “higher being.” A self-declared enlightened soul who claims expertise on absolutely everything: life, death, the universe, your chakras, and naturally, your finances. 😏

And what a spectacle it is. By the third interminable monologue—good heavens, the droning!—you don’t just feel “spiritually awakened,” you begin to suspect that without their guidance, your very ability to breathe is compromised.

Picture wisdom compressed into the mental equivalent of a granola bar: quick, digestible, vaguely nutritious. Sprinkle over your existential crisis and voilà—instant enlightenment, conveniently packaged.

There are, broadly speaking, two kinds of people in this world: those who are utterly convinced they know where the chicken lays her eggs, and those sensible enough to leave her to it. The first sort often appear impressively busy—prowling gardens with the air of prophets entrusted with the universe’s secrets—though in reality they are merely trailing a hen with a suspiciously knowing wobble.

To chase a chicken in pursuit of her great mystery is not only fruitless, it is aesthetically offensive. She will never lead you where you wish to go—only into mud, nettles, or, more alarmingly, moral swamps. Worst of all, throughout the entire farce the hen wears an expression suggesting that she is allowing you to believe you are the hunter, when in fact the arrangement is quite the reverse.

Far more perilous is the attempt to meet her gaze. That eye has no softness; it is a small, black portal from which bottomless doubt peers back. Once caught in it, you may begin to suspect that your entire philosophy of life has been built on a heap of feathers and somewhat defective imagination. Some insist that if one stares long enough, the chicken begins to wink with faint disdain—as though she has already written a bestselling manual on success and is merely waiting for you to buy it.

And yet, there exists a curious breed of men who will gladly try to sell you this very spectacle as a business opportunity. They offer seminars, e-books, and video courses explaining, with alarming confidence, how to track the hen and unlock the secrets of the egg—never mind that the hen herself has not consented, nor that she considers the whole affair laughably transparent. These gentlemen possess the rare talent of converting common sense into profit, self-importance into currency, and gullibility into a subscription plan. One cannot help but admire, if only from a safe distance, the sheer audacity with which they parade their mischief as mastery.

Thus, for the preservation of both sanity and footwear, restraint is strongly advised. Do not chase chickens, do not peer into their nests, and do not trust birds—or men—that promise to reveal “the secret of the egg.” The wisest conclusion is painfully simple: when someone seems altogether too certain of where the hen hides her wonders, it is a reliable sign that they long ago lost the ability to tell an egg from a stone.