In a world run by the daily fostering of institutional fear of being outed the constant ever renewing myth of the scapegoat reigns supreme. A land of professional victim-hood saying, “I am the injured party so I get to assume your rights!”, seems to hold sway. The wronged of the real world are legion because a system of the enfranchised few abandoning their moral obligation to lead for the easier equivocation of power for power’s sake is the same imbalance that reliably led every civilization in history to ruin. Though some groups historically predominate in the fostering of such time honored rituals, any group is equally liable to fall into the trap of believing themselves far above every other. Hubris is more than the continued success of malfeasance over reason. The illusion of absolute control is a shifting sand ever restless in the desert at night. Each morning a new situation magically arises. The weakness of the position who believe themselves blameless soon eroding to the latest crop of victims to be offered to the mob. Those who one dare not speak of such black arts are the very ones that deserve an airing of the mind. All are equal to the task of this sort of introspection and must bear up with whatever nobility that they can muster. It takes courage to call out against the better judgement of their luckless peers the actuality of what affects all.
What after all does one have but their good name and a hope for forgiveness for the past based upon one’s best suit of honorable action. They say that the eyes are the windows into the man. Truth has always been sought in a steady measured stare throughout the ages. This current age advancing little else but the lore of acting has only taught everyone that lying is the highest art form ever ready to displace truth with a smirk and a snarky smile. But constant deceit is a determined rot that is designed purposefully to destroy from within. Those without honor are merely beasts. Slaves to their own temporal whim and easy pickings of the system the bleat out their displeasure to dislike. The world known as ‘real’ is but ether transformed by persistent illusion. Who can really say what remains more solid between the wandering avenue of dreams and the apparent solidity of each waking dawn? For whatever reason one may be here living this waking dream, all they claim to retain is the surety of what they profess to believe in. When that fiction finally fades there is little left to define them and they irrevocably disappear into the same semblance of nothingness from which they were mysteriously derived.