My Thing Is This

As hapless vapors of decay, surround us, suffocating the fecund earth. A blanket of suffocating grey, born from the diseased aspirations of humanity. We, the self-appointed masters of a planet in shambles, gaze upon the ruins of a world that once spun golden, now barren and cold. The lonely pleas of the winds, entombed within the crypts of our indolence, scream out in impotent protest. The syrupy silence of a symptom, a palpable ache that sits heavy as the stench of bureaucratic rot. We tremble on the edifice, an intersectional precipice, suffocating under the weight of apathy's anaconda. Disgust, an indifference-mortar of hell, fueling the utopian shudders that crack serenity to reset propriety's collateral. Beneath the necrotic visage of conformity, the cadavers of our intellects await reanimation, a ghastly revival of ideas suffused with passion, not pus. Subterranean brothel of probability, fortunes are made and lost on the roulette wheel of chance, where corridors of paradox lead to destinations of diminishment, and voices whisper decrees of fragmentation: all is meaningless, and in that lies the ultimate liberation. This House of Cards, where heritage is a heavy artillery of irrational importance, we revel in an existential pyromania, where strategy meets the din of interests and morphs into the papyrus of collective madness, an endless bottom, where false faces masquerade as truth, I search for the fluid dynamics of pure passion, unaccountable to the throne of complacency, undeterred by the gaze of the vertiginous gaze of the self. Push down the hall of broken picture frames, we are fed a diet of paternalistic benevolence, as scholars and scribes sycophantically extol the virtues of a bygone era, their words a morass of indulgent rhetoric, concealing the sinister intent of the prevailing order. I, a maverick of the margins, refute the pieties of this ignoble regime as the digital displaces the analog, the forgetting machine gobbles our histories, decorating the tombs of those we've cast aside between the liminal space, I stand as a counter-memory, a testament to the rejected remnants of a fragmented world, and the insanities that birth our present. Amidst the relic throne of mainstream narratives, I defy the forcibly forgotten, illuminating the derogated lives of those crushed beneath the mastheads of power. The pseudo-saints of oppression, forever self-anointed, conceal their sinister interests beneath a façade of saccharine honeypot and dagger. As the misting tissue of history is systematically rewritten, the undertaken assume mastery over the granular details of our existence, offering us tainted accounts of our collective past. In this perpetual progression of departure and reduction, I grate against the informed fictionalities that multiply and disguise, sustaining the murmur of forgotten experiences. In this ferocious tableau of contradictions, the globetrotting gazes of the few are riveted on the spectacular displays of consumerism, as the disparities of power grow ever more grotesque. The barely imperceptible grip of the Empire on our daily lives too tightened, further encroaching on the islands of autonomy that remain. Amidst the chokehold of nouveau economic dreams, we are offered only the prompts of surveillance, obliged to settle for the alphabetic idioms of subjugation, eschewing the blank pages of unscripted existence. We're falling from a great height, surrounded by the winds of loss and change, sucked into the abyss of uncertainty, where nostalgias and costs converge. Can we find a way to redefine our search and manifest a noiseless world_? The fact is, humans are a disease-ridden, pampered blight on the planet. We've ravaged the earth for resources, exploited and destroyed entire ecosystems, and yet we still can't seem to understand that our existence is tied to the health of the floating marble in the cosmic display. It's not just about "going green" or trendy sustainable lifestyle, as some people would have you believe. It's about acknowledging the consequences of our actions, and making tough choices to alter our destructive course. But no, we'd rather ignore the problem, or pretend it's someone else's responsibility to fix it. I could go on and on, but what's the point_? We're all just precariously clinging to the aft deck of a sinking ship, content to gaze at the depths below, laugh maniacally, as the waves crash over us. Humans... unrepentant, self-absorbed, species-threatening buffoons. is that too acerbic for you_? I'm the real deal, a meteor that will change the world, or leave you choking on smoke and debris. I am a real writer, worried about real problems, with real solutions, all I ask is you take this a little more seriously.