Defenestrate The Masses
The Words Of Conrad Miller
“Concave, convex and corneal spires And ambulating observations That inspire.” the header said.It was taking shape. From those Greatest that now lay asunder, I took a piece, built up the torso from their scraps - they were, it showed, desolated by the course the world was now taking. The world was getting darker, more shrouded, unclear. I had once known the motivation of that hill in the sky, but now I was getting old, with my mission still in my sights. I began to talk to it, sharing hopes and dreams for the future of a world with this in it. And an extraordinary thing happened. With each syllable, the words I spoke seeped into the skin, making it glow, and with each detrimental tone uttered, it whisped with a dark mist, like the words of darkness created darkness, the words of light created light. I hadn’t made contingency for this, but it seemed it learned from me, from my words. I used them sparingly, only for greatest impact, not wasting this potentially finite opportunity. I told it how I thought the world had died, how I thought decay had embedded itself into the core of every fibre of the work laid out by the Builders, how they and I had wished for a better world - but bent on destruction, the world and the City gave themselves to the destroyer. I told it how the world could be; free and without restraints, hedonistic almost, filling the people with joy. Instead, a rot had set in that fed itself, sucked the marrow from the bones of progress, ate at the very rind of establishment. I wandered, through day and night, my laboratory and the grounds that surrounded it - my pathway, my witness to the destruction of the Builder’s legacy. I would amble, watching the beauty of the Above be slowly taken apart. I watched as the Builder’s statues were toppled, their body parts crashing to the Riddle, creating a kind of beauty of their own, slanted along stress lines, the head next to the right hand, the foot resting under the ribcage. And the fires. They set the night skies to a poor imitation of sunlight. The Prefects of the Sky screamed in those days, the Gasten were scarce, and each call for aid was followed by frightened yell in the City as the non-conformists were rallied into incarceration of their own houses, or more common into prisons, where they were left to fall apart, out of sight.I knew I could help, if only they let me. But that would never happen. Although I was no longer personally hunted, I was also forgotten, along with so many of my peers. We were the long dead old guard, no longer needed, no longer useful. No longer dangerous. Soon my solution would take its place in the bastion of society. Not long now. Please give me time to finish? Otherwise all is lost. We need hope. Everyone needs hope.
No comments:
Post a Comment