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 exists, across the shimmering wastes of the internet, a peculiar breed of modern oracle. They do not consult ancient texts, nor wrestle with philosophy. Their gospel is broadcast daily through the lens of a trembling phone camera. Their doctrine? Three parts recycled clichés, one part heavy breathing. Their medium? Their own face.

And oh, what a face it is. Not the serene visage of a sage, but a canvas of oil and fatigue, glistening like a neglected frying pan. Their eyes—vast, unblinking, and alarmingly round—stare at us with the intensity of someone who has mistaken “divine presence” for a particularly stubborn caffeine rush. One cannot help but wonder: is this enlightenment, or merely dehydration?

Above this spectacle rises the hair: a tragic opera in three acts. Act One: The Nest—where strands gather in chaotic assemblies, as if small woodland creatures are preparing for winter. Act Two: The Collapse—gravity staging its rebellion in limp, greasy tufts. Act Three: The Finale—an overall effect so distracted, so gloriously unkempt, that it leaves the viewer less “inspired” and more “itchy.”

And yet, these beings—these self-anointed tutors of existence—insist upon documenting their condition relentlessly. Morning, noon, and night: the selfie parade continues. Each upload whispers, “Behold my authenticity, my rawness, my sacred imperfection.” What it actually screams is, “Soap has not touched me since the last equinox.”

There is something exquisitely comic, and at the same time profoundly tragic, in this spectacle. For these figures claim access to the deepest truths of life, yet betray no acquaintance with the simplest truths of hygiene. They speak of energy flows, but cannot manage water flows. They preach transcendence, while their foreheads reflect light with the clarity of a polished saucepan.

So let us be honest: if wisdom truly resided in the glassy eye and the oily cheek, civilisation would have ended long ago in a locker room. If uncombed hair were the crown of enlightenment, every scarecrow in every forgotten field would already be a saint.

The reality is simpler, and sharper: these online mentors are not guides to higher consciousness. They are exhibitions—living installations of vanity and neglect—using our attention as their mirror. The comedy lies not in their madness, but in the number of souls persuaded to call it wisdom.

And so, before we kneel at their digital pulpits, let us remember: true light is not found in ring lamps, nor salvation in the latest reel. Sometimes the clearest revelation is this—wash your face, comb your hair, and perhaps, just perhaps, you’ll begin to resemble the mentor you pretend to be.