Ponderings and Miscommunication to the World’s Iniquitous Stage
“Why must man be humanized? Does this not only accent his ineptitude—or the ineptitude of so many that do not fill the lace-down dress shoes of their predecessors?” The old man jotted his thoughts on a large drawing pad resting on his knees. “It is the darkness in which so many live that defines the soul, not perhaps, the light. There is benefit to a life of toil and heartache as an ultimate means to find happiness, but this is not deeply concerning—this nonsense about character building and suffering in order for greater peace. The man who knows nothing of this deserves martyrdom, better to be used as a symbol, as Lavina with her hands lopped and tongue cut, than a reckless, beleaguered human being.” He sat in a green folding seat with a small golden number attached. It was among many like it in the east corner of the stadium. Three men stood a few rows in front of him painted in letters with bright colors, drinking beer and letting out harsh sounds from endless voids. “Self destructive men are chastised as lost, but this day dictates the uprising of just these men. Those to put us back into perspective and right so many wrongs. No, do not think me crass, I speak not of man destroying fellow man, but instead destructing themselves in unison.” The old man gazed at the field, making eye of the ball. The crowd below chanted and mused. The stadium shadow had moved up to the seats a few rows before him; the three men in costume were illuminated. “A deep crawl into the enigma of the mind, that black corner of the skull where the demon lives…embrace him. Man’s fault is that he adheres to religion and basic morality though he realizes the opposition of his instincts. Traded up, the freewill of our holy fathers for this entity capable of survival in the state of nature through pure humanity seems unrighteous in this, the impetus of our time. The papers do not write of love, sanctity or the value of human life, these are things of the future…not of parasitic present.” The old man flipped the white matte paper and settled into another sheet. “Remember children, down the river, not across the stream…” The old man readied upon the game. His face, distinct from deep aging cracks, pulled thin as he arched his brows and pulled the corner of his mouth curling it wryly. “Man is an easy target, one supposes, for implosion…” He stared at the three just ahead, breathing heavily. “May God rest their villainy, for the Devil sees all…”
Leave a Reply