Imagine a bustling city scene, at midmorning peak. Truck horns blaring, their drivers already swearing and sweating. The commonplace SUV, trying with all it’s might to get its passengers to their destinations on time, the flirty sports car, winking at its rivals as it flits through gaps that seem to appear at its will. Close your eyes as curses of the vilest kind drift through your cranked down window, and let me take you away.
A road paved with the bodies of the falsely righteous, those who gave hope to the people of the world, now trampled and unrecognisable. Yet we do not dwell on them as they are dead now and serve a nobler purpose.
Dressed in royal rags they tramp along, walking where lead. This mob is not a violent one; its fire has been extinguished long ago. So fall in line and join the procession. It’s about to start, the rush hour in hell.
The damned have not been gifted with cars and trucks, though their journey is long. Bound in chains of silk and satin they move without rest, whipped on by devils and demons. A stampede in the making as they begin to run, hopelessly, as if to escape the beatings, though it is their fate, as they now well.
If you look carefully you can spot the newly damned. It is ironic, that they fare better than their elders, who have survived this self same procedure for who knows how long. In this race, if you fall you fall forever. A million anxious men and women will trample your body in their useless flight to an imagined end.
The simplicity of this astounds me. What better way to taunt and torture the damned than to drive them into this frenzy, to create a false hope, to make them think that this mad rush hour, this painful race, will end in a better destination. To create this traffic. The pushing and the shoving, the screams of the fallen, the roars of frustration as the damned overtake the damned and the sardonic jeers of the omnipotent oppressors. You close your eyes and wish for an end to this abomination.
And so I open my eyes and the blare of the living surrounds me once more. Surveying the scene, so frustrating, so commonplace, and almost at end, my eyes catches that of the young beauty in the car next to me, applying her make-up in her rear-view mirror. She flashes me a confident smile, almost flirty, and I grin back, a hysterical laugh rising to my throat as a dry, sarcastic thought occurs to me.
Where will you get the tools to fuel your narcissism in hell?
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