Thursday, August 11, 2011
The world spins slowly, burning. The fuel is the rage of a people, a thousand peoples, tens of thousands, millions...billions; nations large and small. The zealous feed them, lies in the morning, at noon, in the evening. Like cattle, like sheep, they are herded in, grazed, fed their quota, and sent out. The untruths are satisfying, the feeling of rightness, of fairness, of equality, bred into them. The great group-think machines indoctrinate the mindless from a young age. And those who cannot be indoctrinated are drugged or ostracized. It is compelling. Many and more fall before and worship. Their knees are sundered, destroyed, flayed as they grovel, shuffling along with arms splayed, their hymns rising in crescendo. It beats against an ill wind, vying for attention, demanding it and more. Entitled. The are given much are more, but their hunger, their thirst, cannot be sated. They cry out as though in pain, anguish. More, they cry. More! It is given, and still cannot be assuaged. Burning, forever burning. Nations crumble. Buildings and infrastructure. Businesses and homes. More and more is set to the torch. The blame? The sheep do not take the blame, for they are mindless. It is the shepherd who must be at fault! The sheepdog! But never those who cause the problems, who incite and demonize. They are blameless, demons in angels clothing scrying the heavens for signs and wonders and meanings and spinning their webs and their tales. They make clear to the zombies what must be done. And mankind consumes itself. Only in death is every man equal.
Saturday, August 06, 2011
I am a proud member of the nation of Wakefulness, and like all persons of my nation, I gladly wage a war every evening. It need not necessarily be in the evening, either, but whenever the lethargy takes me. Those moments of tiredness awaken in me a bloodlust. With that, I begin my usual assault upon the nation of Sleep. That foreign, disgusting country. I cannot remember its exact location, nor is it quite found on a map, but I know where it is. We all do. My assaults begin with the same fervent passion, with vigor, demanding that the great country open its gates and allow me entrance, passage. However long these assaults take, I usually win out. But only ever for a few mere hours. Maybe not even that. They are cunning, these creatures that command the country of Sleep. Always I find myself back within the realms of Wakefulness. It disgusts me to be there, having lost once again. Sleep, so overpowering... it always wins. Even in Wakefulness. Now, Sweet Dreams... That place is impenetrable. None that I know have ever passed through its golden, gilded gates. What lies beyond is mystery. Any assault made there is doomed to failure before it begins. At least with the Country of Sleep, you may win out over it for a few hours. Remember, my friends: be weary of Sleep. Always weary...