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.

In some suspiciously remote corner of the countryside—where hedges are trimmed with ritualistic precision and the Wi-Fi greets you with all the enthusiasm of a slightly offended snail—a tribe of miniature prodigies perfects the sacred art of being astonishingly, spectacularly themselves.

Success here is measured not by real-world accomplishments, but by how convincingly one can stage one’s own genius for an online audience that may or may not exist. Planning? Optional. Accreditation? Pfft—what’s that? Laughably irrelevant.

At this place, freshly squeezed juice has long transcended mere refreshment; it is now an existential metaphor for heroic effort, persistence, and the kind of self-importance that could almost kill a grown adult from sheer envy.

Market-bought produce, magically rebranded as “naturally, laboriously hand-squeezed, sacred, awakening potion,” becomes a talisman of inner genius. Every sip is a ritual of triumph; every spill a profound lesson.

Lessons are delivered with all the solemnity of a Nobel lecture, even when the content might be more appropriate for a symposium on cloud aesthetics, sock ethics, or the art of pouring metaphorical lemonade at the exact wrong angle.

Apprentices do not simply participate—they manifest; they perform existential miracles. Every task is a performance, punctuated by digital self-applause flickering like candlelight: likes, hearts, reactions, each a tiny (because shockingly underwhelming compared to the grandiose, probably bot-generated, custom headline) testament to one’s brilliance.

The mentor drifts between omniscient guide and ringmaster of a one-woman circus, issuing enigmatic pronouncements that might be profound insight, delivered with the gravitas of a saint, but could equally pass for commentary on whether the sky is sufficiently blue, fingers adequately aligned, or one’s reflection sufficiently imperfect and perfectly exposed for critique.. (because, naturally, this is mandatory for the greater—mostly financial—advantage of the enlightened).. on social media. The important thing is to look inspired. Meaning is optional; spectacle is mandatory.

Meanwhile, the future generation wander through this microcosm beneath a protective dome of cultivated isolation, shielded from the messy, unpredictable chaos of the real world. Ordinary schooling? Laughable. Peer interaction? Only if said peers are four-legged, feathered, or otherwise not inclined to spoil the ritual. Reality itself has been quarantined, leaving a theatre of ritualised chaos, digital theatrics, and the occasional existential panic over whether one’s digital self-adoration has achieved a satisfactory crescendo today.

It is absurd. It is audacious to the point of sublime cruelty. And yet, it is utterly compelling: a self-contained, unaccredited kingdom of discipline, delight, and relentless self-celebration that bewilders observers while leaving outsiders secretly envious, and possibly a little nauseated.

Note to self: True mastery is not about what you actually know. It is about convincing everyone—real, imagined, or algorithmic—that you know everything, all while orchestrating the most ruthlessly desperate, pitiful, self-congratulatory digital pageant conceivable.🫤