The world sinks lower and deeper, and through a drain darkly it flows down an abyss of its own (vainglorious) making, every person an agent of truth, or God, or the End of History. We look out for number one — ourselves — killing in the name of life, suppressing in the name of freedom, stifling in the name of tolerance, appeasing in the name of peace, moving backwards in the name of a future bright in theory, in practice bleak and extracted from the annals of the Dark Age. We make our advance, rabid, blind, a host of psychotic twisted champions of causes fraying, decaying, corrupted and vengeful, in fact, murderous — a world taken over by a belligerent, pugnacious, shit-ugly mindset looking for blood, trophies, and a railtrack of victory notches to satisfy the black holes rupturing inside the dried-up psyches of those of us who have cracked — and keep cracking — in the glare of materialism, its plague-like ideology of convenience and mimicry, an ideology rallied from the pits of atavism in our misguided effort to push back against the emptiness that consumes life’s framework, rendering us living dead — a form of life in search of other life to destroy, all in the name of noble causes gone awry.
Down the drain our history flows, darkly, and so does our future, our souls awash with the gravity of our deeds. We fall through the cracks of spacetime in an endless cascade, praying for rock bottom, for an end to the fall. The never-ending crash consumes us, defines us, shaping the whole of which we are part, our motion giving rise to a dark kinetic energy that seeps through the construct, our flow its dark blood, its body our vessel, inside which we rot and fester, feeding the channels and chambers with our stench, our endless purgatory. The top of the world is no longer visible. It vanished long ago, we no longer know what it means, darkness is all there is, the loss of deliverance, and the only light we understand is the flame of what burns as a result of our input. The world, driven by dark humors and grainy whispers, turns on itself. Shivering, poisoned, irate, it looks for something to crush and take its mind off the sickness, even if just for a moment. Life destroys life in its effort to distract from the rot and stench, feeding the cascade with more poison, an ecology of disease that grows on the backdrop of an attempted cure, a misguided lashing-out at all things animate and intelligent, at everything available — a matrix of unsound mind and rotting psyche that grows worse with time, and which, in due course, will implode like a mindless pathogen.
The world, at least the one we have given rise to, the one we see and measure and know, everything as we understand it — and which we have tainted with our pathogenic inversion — will die out like a nightmare, leaving behind a world of ruin littered with inanimate life. A dark wet lump of coal flowing in space is what we are, if not now, soon — a cosmic Easter Island around which debris floats in turn, illuminated by the giant hearth that sheds light on all things, and which we were unable to put to good use. We lost ourselves in the cracks of our ambition, fell prey to our base instincts. Dizzy with the fumes of our confinement, we became part of the underworld we fell into. Down the drain we move, past the point of no return, coming out the other end a piece of waste, a reminder to those who come across us (the universe is a big place) that life is a dirty affair, and that one has to be careful not to slip and fall, lest one becomes the source of one’s poison, one’s expiration.
Still, not all is lost. We may be spent, but whatever is left of us may be put to use by those who come across us. We may still play our part, compost for another life’s dreams, the building blocks for a new construct. Life goes on, no matter what.