The proud parent thinking that they had done the right thing taking their child to the amusement park asked, “Well! How was it?” The little boy stared back quizzically and replied, “I’ll tell you when I finally get back from the very last one.” And who of any of us can say that we have ever gotten off that merry-go-round since? Or indeed have wanted to? Even if it finally kills everything about us that may have been decent in the end? We spend the night in fear of our own cowardice to act in our own behalf. Leaders and perpetrators may be one and the same but the real party at fault is ourselves for going along. Is the life of a fantasy soaked slave so sweet that he cannot risk breaking his chains? What is so magnificent about carrying the very weapon of your enemy about in your hand and then taking it’s cancerous emanations into your head? Who told you that you could not wash your own clothing by hand in a washtub? Who told you that you had to allow yourself to be injected with the same poison that is spread by the same institutions that wish to eliminate you? Why must your take a necktie as anything beyond what it is intended to symbolize beyond a noose that you eventually hang yourself with? The populations of the major cities are simply self deluded fools that think that their lifetimes are simply about being owned like spoiled pets. Fulfilling a false illusion of individuality while in fact they are merely rearranged cogs glued into place on phantom wheels designed to grind them into their own slow inevitable destruction. The plans of which having been planted through careful drama’s endless repetition written by those very enemies that have lived amidst them for generations as parasites. The existence that your persist in perpetuating is your own folly and no one else’s. You let ‘evil‘ rule existence, that less than ironic polar opposite of ‘live‘, and then wait around humbly, like empty headed sheep, for the consequences to catch up to you. The only sure thing in this equation being your own assured end on someone else’s terms.
A ‘menschen‘ of excess and obsession. Pathologically so! All to show for their failings being the oversupply of material objects each of an outmoded sense of value to the atrophy of society that forever surrounds them. The chase for golden apples seemingly eternal for the brass of the moment when a synthesis with that diaphanous proposition success translates into a temporal reality of being found ahead of all the others. The most dangerous of notions!
It may have been that along the way on the path one forged that sight of what was so long familiar and easily to mind in the past was lost. One’s own name forgotten? That tall grass that ever lay unkempt. Tamed only after the largess of the passing seasons converted into dead stalks blown over by old winds to fall desiccated and seemingly spent before another season’s reciprocation. The dipole of mixed emotions equally susceptible to being drawn to and forth and then repelled What after all did one have to lose but one’s self? The infrequency of familiar relations a rarity with others casting one immediately as the stranger. Novel for a time, but never at home. Only those far distant times that were spent under the rule of those barely recalled others who brought one into the world. Judged a fit bow to have claimed have loosed so errant an arrow. Enforced anonymity equally a matter of patent non-specificity being as much a matter of reckless adherence to the daily rule of iron routines. Like a liquid, bleaching a visible spot as stain goes on expanding beyond its boundaries attempting to seek the most expeditiously covert means of escape. High pressure to low pressure. So much that quantity of landscape to have been dragged across so roughly.So many rocks that have bruised the thighs! And all of the damage too problematic to attempt to reasonably recall! Can one have the presence of mind to be able to precisely recall the disapproval upon their own mother’s or father’s face? The keepers of the circus cannon that one once used to recklessly shoot one’s self from. To bump and land roughly into more distant climes to be locked and imprisoned in solitude. Now the facsimile of the idea that propelled one forth lost somewhere nondescript within abandoned fairgrounds. A concept suddenly found to have been long ago disproved but never heeded. Those fatal and inescapable words, “I am alone.”
The sonorous quality of all things familiar drives one to summon the creation that approximates what once . To find that same nest of broken eggshells that was once known as home? How close to that vine that one seems to cling to when the fear of an inevitable end is approaching? Trying to summon some form of reliable surety, as if one surely knows something unique and eternal as opposed to simply repeating the same answers as one is always told. The path leads only in one direction. There is no possibility of return. The great tragedy of finding a fool’s cap resting upon one’s own head as they are informed it has always so securely rested. “What could you have ever expected to carry with you to the grave?” So many would have wanted one to tell a a safe and comforting familiar story! To recount a place of wonder safe from want or annoying irritations.To take them somewhere that may be familiar enough to never challenge but delightfully explore two steps only past the periphery. Not lost in the bush. “Is that right?” How do robins manage to mind their young yet expect them to fly off one day on their own? All we have in this larger fishbowl is ourselves and the long accumulation of what becomes our own follies to confront. Every automobile eventually runs out of gas or breaks down. Unless some measure of replenishment is found. But what if it can no longer be found? A long line of camels waiting for safe passage through a needle’s eye. Too far somewhere undefined in the desert of one’s self? Past times seems to quickly fade into rust. Banished by one’s children who will start their lives independently of any judgment of my own when fully grown. Individuals and adults when you are long dead. A passing generation another fragile flotilla of little candles in paper boats sailing off into the waiting darkness together and yet alone. But to what end? Eventually. Inevitably withdrawn from society and humanity demoted to a passing intermediate phase of inconvenient and annoying presence to those young and vial? A dry no longer nutritious granule in an aging box of cream of wheat. A box of crumbling crayons no longer usable. That long nightly climb to the solitude of the bed chamber. The great novels locked in one’s head otherwise empty and sunk into the harbor of regret. Lamenting all the impossibilities that one could never have possibly shared in? The life of the reasonable and possible having never been fully formed. But gone to rot. A meal for the ship’s worms. Age laughably still not destructive of that perpetual habit of everlasting hope for the future. If not here, then in some other realm never yet suggested or imagined.
That tiny continuous drip in the back of his consciousness was making it next to impossible to drift away into the infinite cloistered confidence of sleep. “In the back of his mind?“, he thought. “No!” It was in the back of his head. Or the back of his throat? Wherever it was, he had been awake for what seemed like over an hour. The telltale thump of his heart pumped away its power propelling an oversupply of blood to his temples. He lay in a clammy sweat. The last person on his end of the floor had moved out. He was now alone. “Splash, splash, splash.“, the annoying sound continued on uninterrupted like ‘Bigfoot‘ in oversized galoshes. He thought that he wanted to cough and his throat spasmed. But the impulse to complete the spontaneous impulse passed. “Force of will!“, he replied to his inner thoughts. “La forza del destino!“, his mind automatically recited. It had carried him through before. He could here the sappy violins doing the best to emote within the reverbarance of a large concert hall. “Verdi!“, the picture of the old Italian flashed behind his eyes. “What a setting?“, his mind added with an innate sense of knowing. “Splash, splash, splash.“, continued the pair of gargantuan feet. He was in motion before the thought had been decided upon. His feet over the bed he swung up to a sitting position. Then crouched over elbows on his knees to get a better estimation of the floor. It was still there since the last time that he had gotten up from the bed to go to the potty. “Don Alvaro.” He rose to his feet initially cantering a step to the side in dizzy recovery. “Indeed!”, his mind rung like an unanswered phone. “La vita e inferno all ‘infelice!” “Hell indeed!” the dark hallway door a portal to the hall the porcelain throne some paces down the hall reflecting the dim reflection of sparely posed external light playing upon a row of dim countenances from old framed photos. “O tu che seno agli angel!” “Splash, splash, splash.”, the footsteps ignorantly followed. “Pace, Pace mio Dio!“, his bottom confident of a proper landing pad within the reigning darkness. Could his choice of dinner be to blame for this infernal hell march that seemed to continue on uninterrupted? No! He sat there in the fractured stillness looking at the distant street lamp’s glow rebounding about his hallway from without. Something else was on his mind. The stillness of the moment gathered upon his shoulders like an old woman’s shawl. What awful thing can it be?
The day before in review had brought no solace. “How odd that you could know someone for a decade or more and then within the span of less than 24 hours they were worse than a stranger?“, the hollow thought echoed alongside his distress. He had been sick for four days. Violently so. Past generations might have casually referred to such violence simply as, ‘the grip‘. The racking cough that had roughly animated him unexpectedly throughout the previous day like a Punchinello had left the mark of its violence upon him. He had barely been able to keep his eyes open beyond the onset of early evening. All seemed equitable for the hope of recovery until he had awakened. Cold clammy his back wet with the distress of a lingering fever. His internal brain matter feeling dense and hard like a dried out sponge. “Saliste bella incolume!“, his mind protested amidst the constant sway of the maddening internal rhythm. Was it true that events one suffered in life were the prime mover behind one’s own fate? The loss of his friend had bothered. Him. Could he call him a friend in truth though? So many had passed along through life. Bright momentary flickers bending the ultimate consequence of his life through the distraction of momentary sojourns when happiness seemed a regular visit once again. Now he seemed entombed int he isolation of his own encapsulating silence. “Splash, splash, splash.“, the sound reminded him. “Fuggir potessi!“, his head echoed back. He stared back into the darkness to the other side. It dawned on him that almost all the old timers that once been central to the life of the apartment were no longer evident. One by one they seemed to drift into an vague emptiness of any recollection of the recent experience of their presence? Later finding out that death and old age had been supplemented by an inexplicable need to simply disappear. Now he seemed the last one here. “Morir tremenda cosi!” “Thud, thud, thud!“, answered the impenetrably fractious mental rhythm unexpectedly. The man spun about and rose impiously from his seat. His head seemed to clear out of all thought and assume a dark blackness. The heavens appeared above him revealed from the constant fog of Midnight into sparks approximating a sky full of stars. Infinite for a moment and then gone.
The new neighbor had noticed a peculiar yet cloyingly familiar odor for the second day. Something at his end of the hall seemed particularly nasty. The weather had been particularly bad for weeks now and it was rare to find anyone who did not evidence some hint of a sniffle. The movers had been none too careful where they tread transferring his boxes format their truck past the grassy median that led through a back entrance to the service elevator. Someplace he reckoned that the building’s residents walked their pets both day and night. He would have the building’s ‘super‘ check. The miserable fits of rain causing havoc of all sorts. He had heard that there was some old operatic impresario living on his end of the floor. Some old fossil, possibly older than his dad? It was hoped that the old geyser wouldn’t be inclined to play his stuffy old music at all hours. God forbid! The old place had a few unrepentant Tony Bennett fans that smoked like chimneys in the midst of the wee morning hours. It had gotten so bad that his polite entreaties being ignored he felt inclined to giver the wall a tap or two without he palm of his fist to impotently pose his ongoing discontent with their geriatric sense of license. He was hoping after what had been a financially traumatic move he would not be faced with yet another situation equal or perhaps even worse? The memory of past experience stuck in his head he navigated through the warren of stacked boxes to the wall connecting to the other portent and put his ear to the wall. At first there was silence. Then the internal Conch-like roar of the virtual sea that inhabited his inner ear. Then the faint sound of a woman singing. Something in Italian or Spanish. Nothing disturbing and probably from a unit much father up or down. He walked back into the bedroom and shrugging his shoulders automatically in consort with the inertia of a previous thought set about unpacking further. Two days later during the afternoon the building superintendent greeted the new tenant with a low voice as he opened the door. “I just wanted to let you know that the former tenant from the unit beside your own was just found.“, the man explained repressing a compressed wrinkled sneer. “He is in a bad way and the city had to call a Hazmat squad to remove what was left of him.” The man looked apologetic at the tenant. “This doesn’t happen often her as most of the older tenants in the building are long gone.“, the man continued. “He was the last one.“, the man’s expression assuming a wistful faraway glance. The neighbor looked back blankly at the balding attendant in his dated green overhaul attire. The older man looked back towards the new tenant as if roused from some momentary muse by the man’s glance, “Thanks again for letting us know.“, he added returning to the previous businesslike apologetic tone, “These things happen now and again.” “We’ll have the other unit up to snuff again, nice and fresh in a couple of days.” “You’ll never know anyone was there!” “It’s just the force of nature!“, he suddenly added.
The aging starlet saw her face seamlessly foisted upon the body of another. The composite likeness of her own visage Photo-shopped upon the naked form of another impaled on the fleshy stick of another faceless male like a Popsicle. How unlike her current existence. That empty series of early morning cattle calls to studio appointments and celebrity events that demanded more of makeup and costume each year to camouflage the decline of that indescribable youthful zest that had brought her into the business in the first place. Now that damnable icon that she had fallen a slave to serving had vaulted to a celebrated realm of perpetual existence that she had never known or would ever hope to approach. The fact of her most private portions shown in proxy utterly maddening if one considered that the anonymous artist had been so overly generous in his choice of pictorial reality. Something that even in her heyday was redoubtable and left untouched by the camera’s hard and uncompromising lens. In some ways it drover her insane to see the slapdash perfection of her most public rival of herself. These midnight hacks seemed so much better at it than she. They not having to endure endless hunger to keep an unruly form at bay or return each night to a solitary bathroom mirror to peel off the glitz and become demoralized by the reacquainted with the lesser mortal that lay just beneath. It was all she could do to control her anger.
How many years of suffering had she devoted to perfecting the imperfect that this unknown scoundrel had re-devised in a matter of less than an hour if that? The juxtaposition of head and body seeming flawless yet the overfilled chest and hips ballooned to almost cartoon proportion. The breasts that bobbed below her chin seemed more from the produce section than from any living human being. The saltwater implants that had as of late replaced the older model of silicone had been the result of much careful judgment in the choosing of the medical practitioner that would assure no sense of bilious proportion that would suggest to the eye of a viewer anything but natural proportion. The viewer now left with the impression that all this care had gone for naught with some overstated hack job. The suggestion being that the aura of refinement and grace that had been the foundation of her stereotyping had been tossed into the arena of a gutter slut. The nerve! And then there was the issue of that ravenous clam-like entrance that through careful management had never come to see the light of day. A rough grizzly dark forest hanging weed-like over the rudeness over a super dilated outcropping of irritated mucous ridden pink flesh. Nothing conceived in the darker regions of her own past could approach the heresy of being so casually associated with this. Save a singular episode of her own dimly lit experience dutifully forgotten from an incident when she had run fallen afoul of good judgment to contract some exacerbated case of women’s trouble.
This ignoble visage in every way mounting broadside after broadside to the woman’s ego. She couldn’t imagine the slut that had originally posed for it and her mindset. At least that bitch had the convenience of anonymity provided by her face. A suppressed memory long cordoned off was instantly jogged as she gazed intently along the limbs and torso of this mysterious decapitated ‘Marie Antoinette. What aim in a persistent dream of possible attainment of a chance of fame and fortune through possible stardom had she though worth the price of her own publicly distributed degradation? Somehow the pondering of such possible avenues sparking motivation was a key to a door that she had herself not dared to allow unlocked for some time now. How vile and vulnerable to have indifferent others peer into the medium in transport of your soul and command it then use it like a dirty dishrag. The star looked upon the facsimile of the representation of her own facial expression pasted so artfully on this pictorial xenomorph trying to determine from what particular event and tabloid that it hailed from? Some overly motivated snot nosed paparazzi verging forth for an instant from amidst all the other Diptera to snap her displeasure at playing the retreating fox to their voracious hounds. The combination of expression and contrasting bodily attitude leaving the ringing impression of some foul snickering locker room mockery. It seemed to sting her eyes as they poured repeatedly over it. The more she saw of it there before her exhibiting its gross shameless abandon the more nauseated she felt. It was all she could do to not throw the computer with its offending imagery from the desk. She pushed to chair back loosing a loud sharp stuttering cry of protest. It was time to pop a couple Lyrica and retire to her bedroom. There was a five AM call the next morning and she had to compose herself as her costar being some new discovery of the producer was at least seven years her younger. That disposed head caught in the moment of long forgotten pique bidding her farewell as the screen went suddenly dark to leave her with her demons and fears that her access to it might to soon disappear as well.
Children form bonds that though broken quickly by family circumstance remain fixed in the mind for a lifetime. The result of a misaligned friendship gone awry and left unsatisfied leaving an inner longing seeking completion throughout the rest of a lifetime. This is the metaphorical boulder before the tomb of waking consciousness that for most is the major impediment of one’s continued existence to the soul traveling forth. To be diminished early at the start of one’s earthly by one’s peers is to be cast in an unfamiliar metal far and apart from the consensus of humanity. Remaining ever mindful of how a trap is always waiting to ensnare one making one align one’s self with the mentality of the predator and not the prey. Castles are built and moats around them dug with the mentality of an extended lifelong siege. Those rare times when a foray into the world of one’s fellows is mounted fewer and fewer as the years wear on. One finds at the end of life a paucity of mortal experience come of diet of dry bread and unrealized dreams. The accumulation of years finding a building sense of unrelieved animal hunger building in one’s metaphorical guts. The wolf within grows into a world wise monster seeking other victims to despoil. Though of course the conscious mind interprets this impulse as sharing the light of hard won experience.
Such a dour description becomes anathema to most others as the average person has been encouraged to continue in the spirit of popular myths that were never intended to be realized. The illusion of community coming together for a common good. The notion of a unique special person that remains untarnished in the regard of one’s heart above all others. The larger contingent lives in the fishbowl of the trends of the most current era. Subject to the penalty of abandonment or exile if they indulge in the transgressions of too enthusiastic a sense of individuality. No one is allowed to wander away from the herd at the penalty of becoming a stranger. Someone to be watched with grave suspicion as a potential social irritant or spy with undisclosed hostile intent. Perhaps those cast away into this wilderness of self are most validly potentially dangerous in the sense of their simple presence alone fostering doubt in others. Worse yet if they confound the strict rules of the game! So many re-congealed ancient myths of Gilgamesh are explained anew with the same old cause of the affront of hubris. Taking the imaginary Gods and goddesses as fanciful tales and daring to suggest that they in truth do not exist. This becomes the unforgivable heresy!
The most major mistake is for an outcast such as this to imagine a path back into the fold. This being the grandest illusion of any one harbors in the foolishness of the back of their mind’s intent. Heroes are singular beggars that only by the accident of circumstance are cast back as exemplary personages to be admired by the crowd. But only in principle in the waking dreamworld of expectation and not in the possibility of an actual promise fulfilled. Thus their example serves the collective of humanity like wheels and gibbets outside the city gates. Or cages strung high over stone saints on tall cathedral steeples. These miscreants only fit to be seen from afar in their despair and not be accorded empathy. Marble tombs and monument being the fittest habitation for the most exceptional among them. Ignominy serving as perpetual shelter for the woeful tale remaining untold for the rest. The unspoken fate of those who go astray a warning to all others not to entertain any possibility that might see them equally transgress. This is not considered victimhood. There is no sense of noble martyrdom. Just an emptiness that one wears like a badge upon the breast. A mark upon one’s arm.
So. Society demands that one wear a mask. Something uniform and easily recognizable as ‘friend’. And like a pair of boots that are too small to begin with we must stuff our feet within them each day and not hobble about but act as if we do not feel the pain. And hope each day anew for another pair perhaps of sandals mentally imagining the freedom that they would afford. Yet realize that such things are not for us. The frustration of continued repression directed at the most easily available ‘other’ as scapegoat. Those of a divergent path actively demonstrating their deviance subject to attack. The raging animal of the mentality of the dangerous vindictive animal known as the crowd showing no mercy only glee at the inflicting of penalties based upon supposition that another transgressor needing to fall beneath the hammer of universal justice. The worst of all fallacies! That a collective code can administer a useful uniform pattern to cookie cut humanity without exception. The unspecified irony being that the only fit administrators of such extreme forms of dries are themselves outcasts. An elite class apart that pretends the special status of omniscience and congress with the mythical powers of the known universe. These are those others invisible to the common folk that scatter about the wheels and gears of society feasting on the grease like scrambling cockroaches ever in fear of full illumination.
Before this the cynic sits between the folly of the species and the chaos of nature knowing from raw experiences of an unsatisfied life that it will not get any better. Aware that no salvation exists beyond one’s own will to endure despite at any cost. A long Winter of the soul and heart before one’s favorite salt lick. How utterly unbearable a proposition for all the rest who much take their daily dosage of state implemented fantasy to renew their unrealizable dreams as fact and not fiction lest they lose their way and join these outcasts in the Hell of empty reality. If one should see a statue in a city park one will find that it is the most solitary of objects. It’s presence never bringing the public any sense of awe or regard but derision or scorn. It is shadow over society to advise that the penalty for actually being exceptional among one’s own kind will inevitably lead to this sort of fate. It is always better to walk past all such beings as if they do not exist at all!
In this culture little white boys cry while little girls don’t. It is a shock to see this happen. But then is exposes something unexpected. A truth to the light of day. Little boys are put in an impossible position of not being able to express themselves as males where in a feminized world little girls have no restrictions. It has become a bygone appreciation in this culture to celebrate masculinity as an inherent virtue. In fact it has been demonized. Violence is accepted as a form of ethnic self-expression for both sexes. But is considered taboo for the most excluded segment of anyone of white Aryan Christian European heritage. The dogma taught being that they are most responsible for all the social ills of the current world. The actual historical truth suppressed being the exact opposite. Western society allowing itself to be overwhelmed by the fact of an internal cultural killer virus superficially referred to at ground level as organized Judaism. The cloistered fact of same violating the convenient conception of labels suggesting old rivals so much as covert alliances of several ‘desert based’ religious philosophies that stretch back literal eons. The serum distorting the natural inclinations of male and female in terms of producing healthy intellectual savvy healthy generations being amorphously termed as Liberalism or Political Correctness. Essentially crafty programs that have been carefully devised to program the host population from cradle to grave into self-destructive mindsets and self-defeating actions. The equivalent of gaining poser over the most important and influential centers of control over society and dissolving same much in the manner that an organism is devoured slowing being bundled up in a web by an arachnid. Toxic notions bombarding the culture incessantly through the destruction of the minds of the young with insidious half-truths that invert the perspectives in a manner characterized by authors like George (Blair) Orwell. We of the most sullied demographic are in a war for out own survival with people that nestle too comfortably among us that seek out annihilation.
The knee jerk reaction is too call this absurd of course. Even to suggest such a theory in current society being termed unacceptable. That in itself is the most telling clue. If you wish to find out an inescapable truth then start with the actions of those who anyone is not allowed to question as to their culpability for any untoward action. The penalty that the questioner faces of course is an instant form of societal enforced exile. The reason for the fear of same being so prevalent in European heritage whites being that the sledge hammer of the popular Liberal dominated media constantly fashions scenarios that offer only total destruction through negative branding of any personage that does so. Like any other long lost empire of old gone senile through its own decadence the United States has submitted itself to its own destruction by falling prey to those who would subvert it through guile. At one time without he help of mass technology literally building a false narrative upon a well-crafted a false persona taken from a time of two totally unnecessary world wars that only served to destroy the best elements of Western culture. Then replacing them with moral equivalencies that only serve to hasten a final and complete genocide of anything ‘white’. The most absurd part of this unthinkable crime being that the key element being the enfranchisement of dogmatically infertile ‘white’ females as the most dominate gatekeepers encouraged by false notions of social victimization. The European part of the species doomed to extinction because what was once termed as ‘the weaker sex’ has become its own worst enemy. Whites are caught in a mile of commercially funded media that is total toxic garbage. They send their children to schools that discard traditional topics promoting functionally self-survival and replace them with this media harangue that elevates the lowest common denominators of society as a model of exemplary behavior.
This is by no stretch of the imagination an accidental situation some of unintended consequences as one might inadvertently mix two substances unadvisedly together to create a poison. Take any given segment of key element of this society in Western countries and find that it has at best been sublimated to the goals of an organized sect that uses the reigning international corporate hegemony as an infallible lever. All one has to do is examine the system of finance that allows this segment to make their wealth out of thin air from the ever increasing sweat of all portions of society that are made to work ever harder to get ever less. A system where the governments of every country on earth are connected by a single system of commerce based upon unsecured debt. The lender merely creating a piece of paper called a contract where the debtor promises to pay future wages in order to get credit from the company store. The role of same eventually becoming a small ruling elite that keep and iron grip on the common people through a government that enforces this cooperate hegemony without exception passing wealth upward and implementing further duress upon the have nots to squeeze them even more. All the while indoctrinating them with a totally inverted viewpoint of the would where they are led to believe that those of their own that resist this tyranny are to blame for it. The eventual goal of this world system being to completely segment all cultures and make them slaves through an interdependence that defiles their national and cultural independence. One group ever encouraged to be spiteful and envious of the other during an interim period as they destroy their own cultures through social and physical attrition. Not just a destruction of the European segment but eventually of every other segment into an ever willing population of domesticated sheep having no defining rebellious traits that would interfere with their own planned use and eventual destruction. Take the analogy of Orwell’s world and put Caligula at the helm and find the perfect analogy for the world of tomorrow if it is allowed to continue as ti currently seems to be.
Nothing. No motivation to speak of. The day was nearing the expected transition. Perhaps the hundred millionth one that he had failed to notice? So much much that was new to him as his eyes traced the fleeting direct illumination of the Sun. The clouds passing slowly like derelict prison hulks spewing fractals of cotton candy. The light streaming now like a puncture wound through rays of evening mist. Magnificence blocking the shadows deepening quickly bringing on drama to the otherwise mundane. He held out his hand extending a forefinger to trace the path of the rapidly departing Sun, its chariot galloping West. Struck like an aging toddler reborn back to the previous wonders of childhood yet again.
A solitary soul in a land of vague familiarity. So many hostile stares of young strangers taken aback. “Am I still here?“, he silently choked out in awe of their sour expressions. “Why haven’t you hurried up and got down to the business of dying?“, their malicious glares all seemed to say in an impatient unison. Same places remaining. But not how they had formerly had been. The narrative an accurate voice of family re-pagination. Inner peace disturbed by an unwarranted intrusion of the same old crowd of the impatient. “The world is no longer mine?” Something no longer of my own creation. Something no longer my fault. At least I am not living still in the bloom of accomplishments of a faraway long ago precocious youth. The crack int he world of their self-ascribed fantasy is what angers these self-important immortals. Nothing is more motivating than the fiction of eternal perfection remodeled to reveal a reality of unstoppable chaos! When abandoned by electricity the facts of one’s lack to compensate are too overwhelming to bear.
Soap opera bitches proclaiming, “The third successive decade of endless self-empowerment!” Resonating freely upon all the misplaced holiday’s TV network’s across the land. Is it possible to imagine a real friendship with a female in the current era? Better she run off with my assets as is now the custom. The current era won’t tolerate it. No overt fraternization! Their message running out of accompanying ‘bread and circuses’ to sell it before the impending collapse of society becomes too painfully imminent. All that is planned to be left for the male of the species is to joust imaginary dragons on his X-Box. And for all the women to have all the cartoon men of their dreams to mercilessly berate but still find all of them magically submitting themselves to even more abuse. The parental duty of organized defecation. Essentially the scripted version of the genocide of the modern European. Once the most favored demographic holding the most popularized products un-sellable. Now fools with beanies, the brims turned backwards. All the once great heroes now gone waiting for their few admirers to die off.
Were everything replaced with something absolutely brand new, the absence of the old equivalents still weigh one down. Museums spouting ‘heritage’ now simply categorical homages to older forms of consumerism and consumption. Whenever suddenly ‘over-exposed‘, women grabbing the own breasts not out of propriety but in embarrassment of fostering disappointment. Modern imagery no longer prone to accidents. And the possibility of being privy to creativity because of same gone forever. The most perfect of women incapable of procreation like any other damned long extinct species. There should be a billboard on every street corner, “FUCK UTOPIA!” The last thing in this universe a man needs is a, “Strong Independent Woman!” No more than his opposite needs those same dubious qualities from him. Those kings and queens of long lost empires that never existed outside the fancy of a terminally perverted mind. “Nice guys No Longer Wanted!” Just an inexhaustible universe of lamentable evil pricks that no ones care one way or another if they die.