If It Were We Wouldn't Be: The Pathetic Insomnia

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Editorial and Opinion  |  House: Booksie Classic
Parallels a John Lennon like influence with the coupling of inevitable violent revolution, and the ineffectiveness thereof.

Submitted: October 05, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 05, 2007

A A A

A A A


Who the How the Why the Hell?

A pathetic insomnia, which I regarded as an omniscient intrusion, came in waves. Interrogation of my own mind led me to find that the past had been the culprit of my current condition, as inevitably with every other living organism, though in my recognition of this link, my deviations were accentuated in their potencies. The insomniac’s curse is as well an introverted blessing as perceived by the afflicted person’s train wreck of non-distinguishable memories and thoughts. Though unperceivable to others, as tangibility is inevitably lost in processing the information over the serotonin imbalance, a surreal imitation of reality replaces actual events. Disillusionment, hallucinations, all part of the plan, though no one knew it. If anyone had, they probably wouldn’t have followed it. Since it’s deceptively guile creation, the plan of existence had been a flawed misconception of what one could do versus what they wanted to do. No one ever can say that they do everything they want whenever they want because the chemical imbalances we view as emotions trick us into disguising the two. How had I ended up where I had? Sitting on a concrete stairwell at two in the morning in the back alley behind some random Mexican convenience store, leaning against a rusty handrail in a hopeless position, I took a drag from a joint and a swig of whiskey from a jar. An orange glow of street lights made the alleyway less inviting despite it’s luminescence. The light centered around the stoop, making anything outside of a ten foot radius difficult to see and vaguely frightening in its simple vulnerability.
I sat back and thought for a moment, laughing cruelly. The plan was working and I at once loved it and despised the fact that I had fallen into its monotonous unpredictability. When was the last time I’d slept? I couldn’t recall, but I knew that I’d been slipping in and out of consciousness. It was when I was unconscious that I worried about. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I wouldn’t really sleep, I’d just go about my regular business in a semi-comatose state. It was dangerous. I’d often wake up driving or at someone else’s house, sometimes with injuries and cuts of unknown origin. These, however, I regarded as nominal effects and discredited them as coincidence of conflict.

Foundations of Obscurity

I’d left home when I turned twelve. I couldn’t stand the homespun fascism of middle-class suburbia’s hypocritical double standards. Most people live a life of servitude because the human condition dictates that one must prevail dominantly over another, larger party. Still, most people need and want this direction in their lives. If properly proportioned, their direction could be ineffably successful in helping the minority of people who are led by it, though no concoction of powers has yet to fully satiate the needs of its growing statistics. I don’t know if my parents tried to search me out, but the police sure did. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to be found and brought back to the prison of their constraints. I became acutely aware of exactly how wrong things had gotten in the world. When half of humanity lives on $1-3 per day while some random asshole in Beverly Hills gets $100,000 in interest per day because he played the stock market right one day, the world needs rectification. Unfortunately, no one is willing to sacrifice the necessary charity for it.
I’m not sure how it came to me, but I assured my freedom when I’d found an empty apartment building ready for destruction. I purposefully became more lax in my appearance so as to attract some attention towards the police posters in the public service buildings and in the mail-outs of missing people that occasionally work their way into the public eye. When I felt the time was right and they were on my trail, I doused the building with gasoline I’d learned to siphon from cars on the street and struck a match.
I sat and watched the building burn until I heard sirens coming and I took refuge in a nearby drainage ditch. The fire was immense and the chaos around it arose some sick sense of pride in knowing that I had caused it. In the flames I saw the families of deceptive whores who had tried so cautiously to manipulate my thoughts. They screamed and slowly fell out of the windows, the flames licking their backs and consuming their bodies. It was a grotesque scene, yet serene, elegant, ethereal.
No body was needed. The fire demolished everything into a pile of ashes. Policemen presumed some of the ashes were mine and I was pronounced dead. All that remained was the fireplace. I always thought that it was slightly ironic how often after a fire the only thing standing was the fireplace. Perhaps it’s a testimony to the fact that we can still not control the first technological advancement that man ever discovered.
From here it was off into an unknown abyss of physical degradation for the pure bliss of its effects. It was at this time that I realized my sleeping disorder. I remember laying down to rest in the drainage ditch though when I awoke, I was in a public restroom of a Wendy’s completely naked. I couldn’t tell what time it was or how long I’d been there. I was just sitting there in a stall, naked, with a broken nose bleeding slightly into some toilet paper and a scattering of random other cuts and bruises. Nausea overcame me suddenly and violently. I was unsure of how to leave. It was not customary to leave a public place in the nude even if it is a shady part of town.
The events in my life that led to the circumstantial evidence that I am alive may seem slightly eccentric or distorted. Once again there exists a circumstantial, theoretical, or preferential argument over exactly what distortion is. Distortion is the mind's perception of imperfection, though perfection is subject to one's opinion; therefore, who is to say what is and what is not distorted...or perfect? To me, the events in my life line up in a subsequent proficiency that is, for my purposes, perfect. They are completely balanced to the left or right extreme of my circumstances depending upon necessity, a suitable notion in my position.
The limited realms of minds are constricted by the influences they despise. Exactly what is it that we as people and as individuals do we despise that is the query to which I believe we as a people are hypocritical. We pretend as though the differential will be blind to ourselves (and for the most part, it is); however, it is those few sporadic moments of brilliant light upon our nakedness that desecrate all we have worked so hard to keep out of public hostility.

Where Obscurity Leads

Being free, actually free, away from society (legally dead as a matter of fact) was incredibly liberating. I had gone AWOL in a sense, but it was pristinely executed. I was a free radical working on my own. I needn’t look over my shoulder because all I was now known as was a sudden feeling of dvu. My anxiety started to slip away. I had no more of the fevered frenzied endorphin rushes as when trying to avoid a undoubtedly painful experience. Emerging now from my obscure beginnings I was led to further smoky veils of reality.
An outsider. Thinking about eternity because its all you can do when the present no longer holds importance and you realize that you are not the time that you so hold dear, but in fact a method of using time; an experiment to see whether you come out alive. All the while these uselessly draining situations of trying to rectify our present to fit our past and comply with our future distort the fact that there is no way to rectify the past and no matter how hard you try, your instinctual tendencies will dictate your future. How much influence you have upon it is, to some extent, up to you; however, no matter what you do you wind up in the same state mentally, physically, transcendentally, and to be completely honest, I doubt that anyone cares.
Personally the bleak darkness of an eternity of nothingness didn’t bother me, but its quite a different tale to the homeward bound of the Lord’s Army. I tried to sleep in a church soon after the fire. I had a conversation with a particularly devout Bible thumper and I was thoroughly educated on how I was going to Hell for my refusal to believe his particular version of moral code. I no longer express my atheism, generally find it to bring about conflict, and I am a pacifist. I finished the conversation:
“You know what man, you’ve got something that works for you. Use it, exploit it, utilize it to its full potential but if this doesn’t go along with what you believe in, then don’t do it. Seriously.”
I didn’t, nor do I usually, find it my place to explain that atheism is not a moral deficiency. It is not the absence of creation and meaning. It simply means that I find mine in ways that need not be taught, told, or otherwise forced upon me. Besides, I was refused a baptism and I have trouble believing the fanciful accounts of occurrences never since found or seen.
Whatever the reason, people find ways to give meaning to their lives. They make up what they want to fill in the cracks of insecurity. I’m sure I’ve done it myself, rendering me within a catch-22 of whether or not my reasoning’s render me insane. Without them, I would surely not be able to comprehend or cope with the void of meaninglessness, or perhaps it’s the meaninglessness of life that I find enables me to no longer care about my condition (one which most would find unsettling to put it kindly).

Leaving, Living, Laying to Waste

It was something I needed to do but had already done. The predicament being that the timing was wrong. It did me no good that I had already done it… I desperately needed its affects of completion right now. I had created a freedom enjoyed by no other man on the planet, and I was ruining it with apathy. Apathy is the basis for failure, but what is there to be accomplished? Nothing will ever live up to its expectations nor its full potential. Disagreements and human error, regardless of how careful we are, will always spill inconsistency and eventual destruction, if not of the invention itself, the byproduct will destroy something else. I rarely slept, if at all, and my relapses into semi-comatose reality were getting worse. The initial spark that had started my need to get out had dimmed by its completion. Perhaps it was because of the way I now saw humanity.

Humans are planetary cyanide.

Admittedly, it’s disgustingly pessimistic, however, evidence points it out to be indisputably true. I would wallow in self preservation to avoid the complications of possibly becoming the final dose of cyanide that snuffed the life out of the one thing I ever got right in life… leaving. My outsider’s perspective had paid off in finding the ailment of human activity; however, I seemed to be the only one who recognized it. Small factions would pretend to understand, but they were hypocritical and held double standards which they could never logically follow. I knew my activities were being monitored now that I had become a mystery of underground philosophy. I grew insane, though only in the manner that society had deemed me a social heretic with radical ideologies. My fraction sample population of others sympathetic to my ideas helped me maintain my composure and self worth as I was discredited as a mentally unstable “hobo“. Some skeptics labeled me “The Second Manson”, though I disagreed. I had not tried, nor forced anyone to read my thoughts, nor perform any actions of my will. Who knows? Perhaps in my semi-comatose state I’d concocted an army of vigilantes to my will, but I doubt it. I don’t have the time. I had a conversation with one of my sympathizers and they brought forth an idea that I had contemplated but never formulated.

“You don’t see this shit happening to little kids man. When we’re kids if we act fucked up its because we’re ‘imaginative’ but when we get older that spark of imagination becomes ‘delusion‘.”

Delusion. We are all delusional. We have somehow come to think that every person is valued just as much as the next. In theory they should be, however, this has never been true in all of human history. People, by nature, believe themselves to be above other people. Without this state of mind, there would be no social ladder to climb and no inspiration for advancement or hard work. All great inventions and advancements stem not from the issue they solved, but from the desire for recognition and wealth, the cornerstones of social elevation. Social equality? Perhaps that is society’s most well crafted delusion.
True, there will always be small factions of deviants who actually practice and believe a concept contrary to general human nature. Although incorrect in every facet, form, and mannerism, it was not my point to prove myself correct, but to show that we are already wrong. My instinctual intuition could tell me nothing of social structures; I knew not where my affinity for change came from.
No government will ever fully satiate both the needs and desires of its people, for to do so it would conflict in the manner for which either the needs are to be provided without infringing the desires or delivering the desires without infringing upon the needs. For this reason I have declared conservative socially liberal utopian socialism the forebear of my political endeavors. The key fault is utopian. Utopia is a state of euphoria that can not realistically exist. My theory would work perfectly on paper; however, as a result that humans have chemical reaction in their brains interpreted as emotions, it would inevitably fail.
It was all a waste. My views would become hypocritical as I find faults in my ways of thinking, as I already have. It takes less than ten percent of a population to encourage radical change. It takes one man’s idea, aptly communicated, to invoke that ten percent. It takes one infallibility to render a visionary delusional.

Everything We Know is Circumstantial

Everything I know is theoretical and can not be tested or proven. It is all at once perfectly correct for my circumstances, yet inconceivably narrow in its scope of applications. Any perfectly crafted question can defeat its purpose. I can say anything and everything I mean and it will never coincide with what I believe. Nothing I know is correct, nothing I know is entirely wrong; however, all that I know is just a given meaning to justify actions in certain situations. Knowledge is circumstantial to what we want it to prove, circumstantial to our methods of retrieving information and our predetermined biases to what that information means. A black curtain, (impenetrable, perhaps an iron curtain) shields reality. Shadows of ignorance blanket the populous areas of Hollywood dreams and statues of misunderstood crooks.
Most people are used to the idea of being told what is right, correct, just, and fair. Indubitably they become accustomed to being in a collective and being given guidelines for their lives without realizing it. The collectives grow desperate for each other. Each person is separated and connected by six degrees of separation anxiety fed by their artificial need for the chains around their feet. It’s a universal anxiety that has people shrouding together in the recessed abysses of societal aggression to quell the fear of being alone and free. Of course there are deviants who claim the right of differentiating themselves. They too, however, share the same chains, only bound differently. Some say that this is simply a gathering of similarities…perhaps… although, even those who follow variations of the norm are generally constricted by their own collective stipulations.



Who the How the Why the Hell?

A pathetic insomnia, which I regarded as an omniscient intrusion, came in waves. Interrogation of my own mind led me to find that the past had been the culprit of my current condition, as inevitably with every other living organism, though in my recognition of this link, my deviations were accentuated in their potencies. The insomniac’s curse is as well an introverted blessing as perceived by the afflicted person’s train wreck of non-distinguishable memories and thoughts. Though unperceivable to others, as tangibility is inevitably lost in processing the information over the serotonin imbalance, a surreal imitation of reality replaces actual events. Disillusionment, hallucinations, all part of the plan, though no one knew it. If anyone had, they probably wouldn’t have followed it. Since it’s deceptively guile creation, the plan of existence had been a flawed misconception of what one could do versus what they wanted to do. No one ever can say that they do everything they want whenever they want because the chemical imbalances we view as emotions trick us into disguising the two. How had I ended up where I had? Sitting on a concrete stairwell at two in the morning in the back alley behind some random Mexican convenience store, leaning against a rusty handrail in a hopeless position, I took a drag from a joint and a swig of whiskey from a jar. An orange glow of street lights made the alleyway less inviting despite it’s luminescence. The light centered around the stoop, making anything outside of a ten foot radius difficult to see and vaguely frightening in its simple vulnerability.
I sat back and thought for a moment, laughing cruelly. The plan was working and I at once loved it and despised the fact that I had fallen into its monotonous unpredictability. When was the last time I’d slept? I couldn’t recall, but I knew that I’d been slipping in and out of consciousness. It was when I was unconscious that I worried about. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I wouldn’t really sleep, I’d just go about my regular business in a semi-comatose state. It was dangerous. I’d often wake up driving or at someone else’s house, sometimes with injuries and cuts of unknown origin. These, however, I regarded as nominal effects and discredited them as coincidence of conflict.

Foundations of Obscurity

I’d left home when I turned twelve. I couldn’t stand the homespun fascism of middle-class suburbia’s hypocritical double standards. Most people live a life of servitude because the human condition dictates that one must prevail dominantly over another, larger party. Still, most people need and want this direction in their lives. If properly proportioned, their direction could be ineffably successful in helping the minority of people who are led by it, though no concoction of powers has yet to fully satiate the needs of its growing statistics. I don’t know if my parents tried to search me out, but the police sure did. It didn’t matter. I didn’t want to be found and brought back to the prison of their constraints. I became acutely aware of exactly how wrong things had gotten in the world. When half of humanity lives on $1-3 per day while some random asshole in Beverly Hills gets $100,000 in interest per day because he played the stock market right one day, the world needs rectification. Unfortunately, no one is willing to sacrifice the necessary charity for it.
I’m not sure how it came to me, but I assured my freedom when I’d found an empty apartment building ready for destruction. I purposefully became more lax in my appearance so as to attract some attention towards the police posters in the public service buildings and in the mail-outs of missing people that occasionally work their way into the public eye. When I felt the time was right and they were on my trail, I doused the building with gasoline I’d learned to siphon from cars on the street and struck a match.
I sat and watched the building burn until I heard sirens coming and I took refuge in a nearby drainage ditch. The fire was immense and the chaos around it arose some sick sense of pride in knowing that I had caused it. In the flames I saw the families of deceptive whores who had tried so cautiously to manipulate my thoughts. They screamed and slowly fell out of the windows, the flames licking their backs and consuming their bodies. It was a grotesque scene, yet serene, elegant, ethereal.
No body was needed. The fire demolished everything into a pile of ashes. Policemen presumed some of the ashes were mine and I was pronounced dead. All that remained was the fireplace. I always thought that it was slightly ironic how often after a fire the only thing standing was the fireplace. Perhaps it’s a testimony to the fact that we can still not control the first technological advancement that man ever discovered.
From here it was off into an unknown abyss of physical degradation for the pure bliss of its effects. It was at this time that I realized my sleeping disorder. I remember laying down to rest in the drainage ditch though when I awoke, I was in a public restroom of a Wendy’s completely naked. I couldn’t tell what time it was or how long I’d been there. I was just sitting there in a stall, naked, with a broken nose bleeding slightly into some toilet paper and a scattering of random other cuts and bruises. Nausea overcame me suddenly and violently. I was unsure of how to leave. It was not customary to leave a public place in the nude even if it is a shady part of town.
The events in my life that led to the circumstantial evidence that I am alive may seem slightly eccentric or distorted. Once again there exists a circumstantial, theoretical, or preferential argument over exactly what distortion is. Distortion is the mind's perception of imperfection, though perfection is subject to one's opinion; therefore, who is to say what is and what is not distorted...or perfect? To me, the events in my life line up in a subsequent proficiency that is, for my purposes, perfect. They are completely balanced to the left or right extreme of my circumstances depending upon necessity, a suitable notion in my position.
The limited realms of minds are constricted by the influences they despise. Exactly what is it that we as people and as individuals do we despise that is the query to which I believe we as a people are hypocritical. We pretend as though the differential will be blind to ourselves (and for the most part, it is); however, it is those few sporadic moments of brilliant light upon our nakedness that desecrate all we have worked so hard to keep out of public hostility.

Where Obscurity Leads

Being free, actually free, away from society (legally dead as a matter of fact) was incredibly liberating. I had gone AWOL in a sense, but it was pristinely executed. I was a free radical working on my own. I needn’t look over my shoulder because all I was now known as was a sudden feeling of dvu. My anxiety started to slip away. I had no more of the fevered frenzied endorphin rushes as when trying to avoid a undoubtedly painful experience. Emerging now from my obscure beginnings I was led to further smoky veils of reality.
An outsider. Thinking about eternity because its all you can do when the present no longer holds importance and you realize that you are not the time that you so hold dear, but in fact a method of using time; an experiment to see whether you come out alive. All the while these uselessly draining situations of trying to rectify our present to fit our past and comply with our future distort the fact that there is no way to rectify the past and no matter how hard you try, your instinctual tendencies will dictate your future. How much influence you have upon it is, to some extent, up to you; however, no matter what you do you wind up in the same state mentally, physically, transcendentally, and to be completely honest, I doubt that anyone cares.
Personally the bleak darkness of an eternity of nothingness didn’t bother me, but its quite a different tale to the homeward bound of the Lord’s Army. I tried to sleep in a church soon after the fire. I had a conversation with a particularly devout Bible thumper and I was thoroughly educated on how I was going to Hell for my refusal to believe his particular version of moral code. I no longer express my atheism, generally find it to bring about conflict, and I am a pacifist. I finished the conversation:
“You know what man, you’ve got something that works for you. Use it, exploit it, utilize it to its full potential but if this doesn’t go along with what you believe in, then don’t do it. Seriously.”
I didn’t, nor do I usually, find it my place to explain that atheism is not a moral deficiency. It is not the absence of creation and meaning. It simply means that I find mine in ways that need not be taught, told, or otherwise forced upon me. Besides, I was refused a baptism and I have trouble believing the fanciful accounts of occurrences never since found or seen.
Whatever the reason, people find ways to give meaning to their lives. They make up what they want to fill in the cracks of insecurity. I’m sure I’ve done it myself, rendering me within a catch-22 of whether or not my reasoning’s render me insane. Without them, I would surely not be able to comprehend or cope with the void of meaninglessness, or perhaps it’s the meaninglessness of life that I find enables me to no longer care about my condition (one which most would find unsettling to put it kindly).

Leaving, Living, Laying to Waste

It was something I needed to do but had already done. The predicament being that the timing was wrong. It did me no good that I had already done it… I desperately needed its affects of completion right now. I had created a freedom enjoyed by no other man on the planet, and I was ruining it with apathy. Apathy is the basis for failure, but what is there to be accomplished? Nothing will ever live up to its expectations nor its full potential. Disagreements and human error, regardless of how careful we are, will always spill inconsistency and eventual destruction, if not of the invention itself, the byproduct will destroy something else. I rarely slept, if at all, and my relapses into semi-comatose reality were getting worse. The initial spark that had started my need to get out had dimmed by its completion. Perhaps it was because of the way I now saw humanity.

Humans are planetary cyanide.

Admittedly, it’s disgustingly pessimistic, however, evidence points it out to be indisputably true. I would wallow in self preservation to avoid the complications of possibly becoming the final dose of cyanide that snuffed the life out of the one thing I ever got right in life… leaving. My outsider’s perspective had paid off in finding the ailment of human activity; however, I seemed to be the only one who recognized it. Small factions would pretend to understand, but they were hypocritical and held double standards which they could never logically follow. I knew my activities were being monitored now that I had become a mystery of underground philosophy. I grew insane, though only in the manner that society had deemed me a social heretic with radical ideologies. My fraction sample population of others sympathetic to my ideas helped me maintain my composure and self worth as I was discredited as a mentally unstable “hobo“. Some skeptics labeled me “The Second Manson”, though I disagreed. I had not tried, nor forced anyone to read my thoughts, nor perform any actions of my will. Who knows? Perhaps in my semi-comatose state I’d concocted an army of vigilantes to my will, but I doubt it. I don’t have the time. I had a conversation with one of my sympathizers and they brought forth an idea that I had contemplated but never formulated.

“You don’t see this shit happening to little kids man. When we’re kids if we act fucked up its because we’re ‘imaginative’ but when we get older that spark of imagination becomes ‘delusion‘.”

Delusion. We are all delusional. We have somehow come to think that every person is valued just as much as the next. In theory they should be, however, this has never been true in all of human history. People, by nature, believe themselves to be above other people. Without this state of mind, there would be no social ladder to climb and no inspiration for advancement or hard work. All great inventions and advancements stem not from the issue they solved, but from the desire for recognition and wealth, the cornerstones of social elevation. Social equality? Perhaps that is society’s most well crafted delusion.
True, there will always be small factions of deviants who actually practice and believe a concept contrary to general human nature. Although incorrect in every facet, form, and mannerism, it was not my point to prove myself correct, but to show that we are already wrong. My instinctual intuition could tell me nothing of social structures; I knew not where my affinity for change came from.
No government will ever fully satiate both the needs and desires of its people, for to do so it would conflict in the manner for which either the needs are to be provided without infringing the desires or delivering the desires without infringing upon the needs. For this reason I have declared conservative socially liberal utopian socialism the forebear of my political endeavors. The key fault is utopian. Utopia is a state of euphoria that can not realistically exist. My theory would work perfectly on paper; however, as a result that humans have chemical reaction in their brains interpreted as emotions, it would inevitably fail.
It was all a waste. My views would become hypocritical as I find faults in my ways of thinking, as I already have. It takes less than ten percent of a population to encourage radical change. It takes one man’s idea, aptly communicated, to invoke that ten percent. It takes one infallibility to render a visionary delusional.

Everything We Know is Circumstantial

Everything I know is theoretical and can not be tested or proven. It is all at once perfectly correct for my circumstances, yet inconceivably narrow in its scope of applications. Any perfectly crafted question can defeat its purpose. I can say anything and everything I mean and it will never coincide with what I believe. Nothing I know is correct, nothing I know is entirely wrong; however, all that I know is just a given meaning to justify actions in certain situations. Knowledge is circumstantial to what we want it to prove, circumstantial to our methods of retrieving information and our predetermined biases to what that information means. A black curtain, (impenetrable, perhaps an iron curtain) shields reality. Shadows of ignorance blanket the populous areas of Hollywood dreams and statues of misunderstood crooks.
Most people are used to the idea of being told what is right, correct, just, and fair. Indubitably they become accustomed to being in a collective and being given guidelines for their lives without realizing it. The collectives grow desperate for each other. Each person is separated and connected by six degrees of separation anxiety fed by their artificial need for the chains around their feet. It’s a universal anxiety that has people shrouding together in the recessed abysses of societal aggression to quell the fear of being alone and free. Of course there are deviants who claim the right of differentiating themselves. They too, however, share the same chains, only bound differently. Some say that this is simply a gathering of similarities…perhaps… although, even those who follow variations of the norm are generally constricted by their own collective stipulations.


What Happened From There

It was bound to happen, but not from me. Essentially I was a means of justification for what had been brewing beneath wet blankets of conformity. The strength and weakness in the insurrection was that I had the majority, they had the fear. Authority always has the fear. The Nuremburg trial proved it. To investigate the Nuremburg trials, the Milgram study tested to see the effects of authority on the general public. Subjects were told to shock an individual (an actor in the next room) with a button every time they give the incorrect answer to a question. The voltage increased at fixed variables, up to 400 volts. The test showed that with an authority figure in the room, none of the subjects stopped shocking until the screams from the other room became unbearable at 300 volts. Authority can break morals. Whether subconscious or fully mindful, authority can undermine the principles we truly believe in.
Civil disobedience. A distinct separation of the same people, torn for their own causes, holding signs that seem to say "hurray for our side". A revolution for mediocrity under false pretenses and ill-conceived. Understanding was not the goal, nor an alleviated situation of grievances. Violence for the sake of destroying what they attributed their problems to, each fighter going after another in hope that they were killing the right idea. A few thousand strong willed valiants for their own individual causes took to the streets with crude weaponry, ironically the antithesis of my message for peace. The government intervened, claiming public endangerment, a false proclamation when it was indeed the government that was in danger from the public and the public no longer a unity, but a mosh of rage. Yet as predicted, the government was strong enough to destroy its people, this time in a more timely manner than usual. Riot control along with a small battalion of armed forces clashed and annihilated the militia of its own people. This is why I don't sleep anymore, I thought. If you close your eyes you'll blind yourself to the horrors all around you… too many people already do that. They sleep constantly, they never awake to see the horrors all around them in plain sight.
That day, I did not battle, I didn't condone it. I did, however, burn a flag. Not just "our" flag, but the flag of every country on earth. No flag represents everyone, nor the struggles they face. If I burned every flag on earth could you tell me the differences in the ashes?

Never Again

I left again. I can’t look at anyone. We are always wrong and fighting for those wrongs. Someone will always find fault and find others to agree until fault is thrusted upon them. To drown what I had done in the midst of a bottle of whiskey would suffice. The evening news was salivating greedily over the ratings that they could squeeze from contorting one wrong into a malicious entity and their opinions glowed in the homes of thousands. The armed forces for obedience went home to be congratulated on quelling a dangerous beast while the small bands had regrouped their senses and gathered in taverns, homes, and anywhere quite to submerge their wounded dignity. Eventually, by chance of striking a match in my mind, and the minds of all who had redressed their lives, we will find that we do not follow a perfect order in any facet, if it were, we wouldn’t. We still wouldn’t, shouldn’t, can’t, and refuse to.


© Copyright 2017 Tyler Breen. All rights reserved.

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