And then there were none...

Murder is what interests us.
Murder is what pays.
Murder is what sells.
What has this world come to?

Sex is what sells the best. Most of the things you see on tv has it. Otherwise it's not selling that well.
The other is murder. Most of the late night shows tell about people and their interaction with each others.
But what mostly connects them all together is murder.
Even a show that's idea is based on art theft and art forgery ends up changing its genre to murdering for the art.
Every crime is about murder.
Aren't there any other kind of crimes anymore?

Agatha Christie is one of the world's best crime novelist.
She wrote 80 detective stories in her lifetime. Her books have been translated to 103 different languages and they are selling still.
She was even appointed the honor of knighthood thus becoming a Dame.
She had a good base and understanding for many of the things she wrote.
Infact she was almost ingenious.
Her novel And then there were none, also known as Ten little niggers, is practically oozing the thrill and excitement of murder.
There are ten people escorted to an island too far away, isolated from everything and everyone.
The old nursery rhyme in mind reading the book forward you start to shiver and startle from every creek and thud you hear around you.
Still when you get to the end you can't believe the result the book is revealing.
But when it ends up the last person dead you feel puzzled wondering how it all went down.
And what and who I missed for the book to finish without a murderer.

What the world don't see and refuses to acknowledge, is that what if you are the victim?
What if you are the murderer?
What if you were isolated in an island with no escape, who would you turn out to be?

The world sells murder.
The world buys murder.
The reasons for it.
How to justify it.
The world shows how it's solved.
Or more or less, how it's done.
But it doesn't show how to cope with the loss.
How to avoid being the target.
How not to become a murderer.

Also what the world don't realize is, that those who actually make the mystery novels, might actually be the murderers.
They implant the thought into us.
They show us how to do them.
And how to get away with it.

The novelists are praised for their ingenuity.
They are celebrated as heros.
They are honored with knighthood.
But in fact, they are the insane ones.
They are barking mad lunatics, with a way with words.
They are pouring out their madness into the books, and people actually read them and praise them.
And these are just mystery novels, and not horror.

The sad thing is, that their so called ingenuity thrives from somewhere.
There is always a reason why somebody is as they are.
There is a little lunatic in all of us.
But to let it out loose, is the worst thing to allow.
What will be left of us if we all let our madness get the better of us?