The stampede continues. From the shadows into the light steps forward our gaze on the horizon. Lack of lust and lack of lack set us free within the cage we seek to expand. Ever outward the clouds drift on the thermals of a mental thunderstorm without recoil. The unfinished meal of our cyst – the stream of defied adherence controlled by stigma upon dogma – lingers but a moment before giving in to the battery of pests and plagues.
Slowly a stale mould covers our eyes, filling us with the still-born tools needed for repetitive scrutiny, as we see the world through the eyes of our reflected discontent. Fill up our hearts, fill up our minds, as we linger in the dusk of yet another forgotten embrace, where the fake smiles of our reflections taunt us and show the misery we’ve sought so to gain.
The marching band progresses forward, stepping on the broken cobblestones of regret, while their shapes remind the dim fog of discarded skulls. In our discord with survival we disbanded our goals and sense of reason, only to be found fit to trample our clones; inherently disproportionately mirrored souls on the same path.
As we listen to the Riddler’s song, we lay on the soil with arms folded, denying our very existence of air, venting only our own futility in the demobilisation we have accepted to be our progress. The stagnation sucks off our shoes as the sink-hole furthers itself onto our carapace.
It is within this stagnation we find, we are forced to find, the normality of forsaking progress to bequeath on our bodies the repetitive futility of neighbourly scrutiny. Hung on black and red ropes to show our passionate discontent is our rightful heir; the first-born of our minds swinging from side to side as its feet dance a dance of loss, jerking and kicking, seeking revelation at the end of life.
Lo and behold, the knight wearing a shining armour of conformity dashes forward on a dead steed of pestilence, his lance a beacon of weary dread to elevate us above and beyond. Time passes as time should while the ever-lasting struggle of our dis-portrayed survival scars itself a way through our days. In endless lines we stomp forward, our greatest reward the futility of life and the fertility of an end that is unforeseen. With the promise of uniqueness and beauty we trample the very ideals set for life in order to attain for naught but the self a way of maintaining the boring equilibrium.
Let us stand then, in lines and throngs, to forsake the path set out by forebear and father and linger in the tears of the mother pooling at the feet of her carcass.
In our final revelation we see the dead-end road of our progeny, the gravel path that skitters away in a surge of pebbles as our unsullied feet seek to pay homage to the journey. Gone are our grand dreams of purpose and fate, the light behind our eyes through which we’ve waded and built upon. Instead, we gained the upper hand in a fight with futility, relinquishing ourselves – and our long-lost dreams – to the bathing cold of repetitive pastures.
Great and many are our numbers, the army of fools running with beheaded minds under rotting arms. We stack the books while reading their lines, ever seeking a way over the wall set to loom over us by expectation and promise.
All is futile.
The drudge – sedated by a false sense of security and progress – knows its way through the endless cycle-maze in which the centre and its inherent rewards are subjected to a constant shift. Slaughtered are our entrepreneurial spirits and visions of grandeur, sullied by the footsteps of those willing to sacrifice life in order to live. Forever more the voice in the back of your head whispers of sweet achievements; the useless material things needed to feel secure in a life that is empty. Gather your wealth and procure, procreate, then die wailing with the realisation of a demobilised scrutiny and the repetitive futility you wielded as a tool to end your very existence. Measure the worth of your non-existent state in the things you’ve gathered, the people you met and the endless years you spent in line to reassure yourself and the ones that follow; a reassurance cracked at the seams, broken in all places.
Forsake your dreams. Give in. Give up. Render yourself unto the coma and be sung to by the lullaby hailed on trumpet and banner. You need not escape the drudgery of your monotone life; you have all you need within a moment’s grasp.
Follow us in the footsteps of ourselves and hail a farewell to the indoctrination of schooling and nurture as we cling to the deathly procession march in a moment of rebellion. Slay the dragon in your dreams and find a job; slave away at the endless conformity, looking from day-to-day ever forward to a moment of freedom and wonder about the end of the horizon. See the dragon’s blood fuel your meaningless end as you define yourself, categorised as a sickeningly happy slave and revel in the fecal matter you redeem to be a relationship. Celebrate, feast and marvel in the creation of your offspring as the greatest accomplishment of your worthless lifetime. Tell them of dreams and goals, set them apart from the multitude of fools who were told the same disgusting lies over and over, only to fail at the hand of promise you forced down their throat.
Die miserably, knowing you left no mark, set no precedent, caused no revelation.
As we stand over your corpse singing our praise and uttering words we heard from others, the slow killer that is a thought creeps around in our heads, knowing, gnawing, telling us we have failed to make proud ourselves from a present past. Yet still, all we retain to do is a return to our non-existence, reassuring ourselves our dreams were not meant to be, our freedom an illusion, our goals a worthy sacrifice in order to continue ourselves.
You will not break the cycle. Your dreams will die with you in a festering pool of scrutinised futility, because you, as am I, are the spoils of war, handed down from generation to misanthropic generation, only to adhere to the whispers of those around you. We must die in order to be free; we must end in order to start. Futility prevails.
Miserably Miserable 