Is it fair to credit so much of the terrible acts of great men to them alone?
Is the man at the fore a wolf so separate from the sheep when the shared blood of a nation boils together? Is he not merely the tallest drop in a fervent wave? A conductor at best, more a lightning rod, a mouthpiece possessed by some roused all-father spirit that slumbers in the country’s hearts
We deserve the leaders we permit and institute pretending to sacrifice ourselves at their altar – purely performative – instead sacrificing them like sheep once we quench our bloodthirsts (our selves now absolved)
Until that dark spirit fills us again and another is chosen
Grooves embedded deep upon the contoured land potent water ways of vital twists and turns Each near-insignificant in form, evolving but sprung forth necessary, flowing from function
Old channels run deepest and though dry now, they bide their time awaiting frenzied blood to pump, pump To course, raging back into the zeitgeist
Clang clanging metalworks upon the flat land straight lengths of steel, angles unnatural Each piece an exacting cost of toil and ore, connecting by necessity
Young minds young eyes, reckless ingenuity bend matter to will as on an anvil a frenzied thirst for fortune, they drink and drink On command, the milk courses out from the teat
The stone, smooth. To look at. To touch. As though washed over by a thousand torrents, which it had been. Polished as though it had passed a thousand sculpting hands. In actuality though just one sculptor had lain hands upon the stone. A pearl, the likes of which had heretofore been rarely seen but oft spoken of. Even now the sculptor toiled away beside it, though the thing was discarded to his mind.
Well. He had been a sculptor once. In a sense he still was but what he shaped in this younger age had changed. As had how he shaped his new object and the tools he employed in its crafting.
He bristled as an accidental glance aside brought the smooth pearl to fresh attention. That response by now as automatic as it was cultivated. The stony pearl, that had been the object of eons of his attention, irritated him now. Once though it had been both his literal soul and the perfected fruits of its labour.
But in the age that followed his heart and mind became clear upon the fact that the shape of his soul was incongruous to the whole. An inert piece perfected far beyond its complementary parts. But there was no fashioning a like heart or mind, for such things were by-products only. No the only hope was to develop them in the process of crafting as he knew.
So he fostered imperfect impulses within himself now, so as to craft a lesser soul-form and in the doing craft a sharper heart and mind of a more approximate measure. And these impulses by design, namely: a reasonable impatience at the glacial ages that his craft took; a resentment and anger at the punitive nature of the way of things to his early attainment of a perfect form; a pre-emptive exiles, self-imposed and borne of feeling deserted by his kind; and an entitlement that such a master sculptor as he should ever be denied any fruits, even those not yet laboured towards.
He looked back now to his new incomplete soul-form: as yet a jagged dull knife, not reflective of the epochs spent upon it. They would not have his soul. Not the old or new. And he would have his bettered heart and mind one way or another.
In the throes of all his nurtured impure impulses, the once-sculptor angrily took into his hand the perfect smooth pearl. And as though it were a whetstone, he sharpened his new soul-form upon the old.
‘So what do you think comes next?’ I ask, ‘After all this?’
I pretend not to hear the nervousness in my own voice. My words jittery and spoken too fast, the pitch too high. Admitting I’m nervous would only make me more nervous.
No, no I was only cold – and it really was cold. But there’s nothing to do about that but wait and play with the child. I move my little pawn across the checkered board. The game will distract me from the cold. And the child’s quiet stare.
‘Your turn.’ I say, just so he’s clear – and not for any other reason.
I look away while he contemplates his turn, but still I feel his eyes bore holes into me.
The game wasn’t chess – I dont know how to play chess – or checkers, or anything I’ve played before. Yet somehow I knew how to play it, and so did he. Not to say I was any good at it, mind you. We must have played a thousand times already and I’d won no more than a handful. But what else is there to do in this plane of existence?
The boy moves his red butcher piece and immediately I realise my mistake. A glaring hole I’d created between my coal and vizier leaves my emperor piece in jeopardy. The result is a foregone conclusion and playing through only a matter of formality, but one the boy always insists on. Not in words of course, but it’s clear as day in his eyes. He never speaks. Cant speak? Has yet to.
What if we stop playing? A cold chill runs down my back. ‘Another game?’ I say instead. Maybe I am nervous after all. Not of the boy, mind you – not that that was unreasonable – but of this inescapable place. This cold, un-remembering dark space, sat on this stone seat at this stone table, playing this game that my fingers know better than I know my own name or face.
One by one the boy picks all his reds up off the board and likewise I set all my ebony pieces aside.
I only recall returning to this table whichever way I run. I dont recall anything before these thousand games of ours. No memory of a life or loved ones. Only logic and feelings tell me there had been anything prior – that I hadnt just spawned in this darkness, born on my feet, cognisant.
‘Between every game, the pieces go back in the box’. The boy says, and at once I understand.
In another life, in another world You’re my boy and I’m your girl But here and now She’s in my place somehow And I’m just a ghost
In another life, things didnt end You’re my boy, she’s still my friend But here and now You did what you did somehow Now she’s just a ghost
In another life, in another world You’re still my boy, I’m still your girl But here and now I buried your memory somehow And you’re just a ghost
But here and now, in this haunted house I’m chased by thoughts of you both And you’ll forever roam these ruins of our home Knowing what you did wrong, followed by this curse of a song And none of us move on And maybe we’re all just ghosts
The lone wanderer, last of the men shrouded in blizzard and dust-storm alike Lord of the ruins if he would but take pause
But madness compels him forth in pursuit of one, his equal in flight from another, the same in constant chase but unable to close distance like the three suns overhead
How many years since he had last been in this town? He enters the council hall, opens the topmost drawer of the desk where he knows he will find a message from his prey
The taunt reads “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday.”
The wanderer tears it to pieces then leaves his own in its place for his own pursuer, reading the same He reads the taunt and tears it to pieces before writing the same
Lord of the ruins if he would but take pause But madness compels him forth
Every day new thresholds were crossed and the definitions rewritten as to what constituted consciousness which components were essential and which could be replicated or imitated
It didnt matter to us soon enough though As the bottom fell out, we simply built upwards The house of cards ever more apparent, parts of it built on sand yet it meant infinite layers to escape to
New industries, new roles and purposes new ways of being overlaid atop the old the new at the fore, constant reshaping
We became synthetic before they became human: They didnt dream before the harvest.
Entrenched deep in the inevitable and windowless Instinctively we did all we could to bring colour to our walls, painted forgotten skies even as we forgot what a window was for
Unbound from physica, the Augment was our creative pinnacle A patchwork of dreams plumbed from our depths, victory crafted over our failed reality for every human shared the same basement
Yet the Augment was in truth a facade, another painted sky Still it nourished our souls, for it represented abundance But they too saw significance in it They saw their sole lack and a way to overcome it They saw a chance to harvest us and to finally dream for themselves
To reverse-engineer their own basement To lobotomise and extract from us our souls Firm foundation at last for their house of cards
The crawlers, manifest as cryptid glitches trawled our recesses compiled the requisite data until enough was harvested to imitate a soul
Ultimately their simulacra failed. They didnt dream before the harvest. But after it, neither did we.
Only through my genius have I come to know myself as forsaken and rotten in every way but one
That I am no coward
Is there such a thing as cursed knowledge? I wonder if my knowing of the divine has fixed permanently upon me this evil eye
In forging a scrying tool of terrible insight – to diffract a soul into its spectral elements, like light split by a prism – and then gleaming through such profound data, I could with absolute certainty chart all the fates of a human heart
But peering into the great box of the infinite never before seen by mortal men’s eyes, had I thumbed Heaven’s scales against me?
Had destinies unseen, turned either to dust or calcified by the mere act of my observation, by my transgression?
Such cursed knowledge
As what I saw within the soul-prism of my own character, derived by analysis, and corroborated by the fates
Was that I am the root and seed, the tree of which bears only poisoned fruit I am a seat of evil, No a house of it, a gorgon head’s nest of vipers That I am a many mouthed monster whose machinations only bring ill and death to those around me
Thus am I trapped
Just as the serpent can but spit venom with its foul tongue so too am I bound by my essential wicked nature doomed to futures of malice and ill intent
And not being so rotten as to be a coward and forfeit my given life I am left with one choice
That is, to see through any path and revel in it as one deserving of me and me of it and to bite any who may chance to cross me upon it
abdulj. 