Conniving waifs. Them
pointy little ears. Always adorning that sweet coif covering a
brilliantly tufty coiffure. Wicked beady little eyes smirking out
from hilariously bushy wrens nest eyebrows. Mystery of mysteries,
how can mouths outwit themselves with lies heaped upon lies, deceit
drooling from lips parched with the thirst for who knows what?
Attention, scorn, ridicule, rapture? To crawl into bed at night
knowing full well everyone you encumbered upon thought the less of
you, my what a trip.
Must have been the
upbringing we surmise. Negligent caregivers no doubt, allowed their
five year old to roam the streets till the wee hours of morning,
never a loaf of bread in the cupboard, supper only if someone was
sober enough to cook. Created a spot of independence early on it
did, that knack for shirking the grasp of child agencies in a land
overflowing with sanctimonious socialists. Slipped through the
cracks we sigh in hindsight, pass a few new laws and all will be
well.
Is it freedom that is
yearned for? To blatantly lie about everything in a legalitarianly
correct society, heaping scorn and ridicule on oneself for posthumous
amusement. That feeling that you screwed up totally everything in
your life, leaving that empty feeling inside, no friends, no one
caring the less at your burial. All in pursuit of that self image,
unattainable dreams of a hardened compulsive. And then to laugh at
it all. What masochists.
We create, us gods of
human virtue. We create the valued and the admonished and the
somewhere in between. We wheedle our unconscious pecking order
loosed upon us by our hairy ancestors, we undermine the mesmerics of
equality. Our esteemed values, ethical undulations of our kinky
civilized thought, hiding in closets those obsessions which are too
flagrant for social media, we are the perfect judges of our fellows.
Speak not, and no one will hear. Use sticky notes.
Does Mr. Sun shine on
you? Does he roast your skin with barbaric tan lines? Open up your
lives to the gods of plenty, let the deceit drool from your lips
that you may value the full encumbrance of freedom, the freedom to
express the naughtiness of that five year old roaming the streets at
2 am. Piss in the gutter once or twice, then crawl into bed
unencumbered by your deceit. Show up for work at noon, and just
smile, willfully. Touch base with the nations downtrodden. Just
smile away.
Express yourselves.
Delve into the world of symbolism. Let those lies pour out their
potency. Adorn that sweet coif covering a brilliantly tufty
coiffure. Hum away your national anthem. Enjoy life. Those waifs
will enjoin your presence in the park at midnight, although they may
be somewhat underhanded in the expression. Catch a falling star. Be
a waif.
We may sort of wonder
what on earth we just esoterically obscured in the above conundrum.
To make things perfectly clear, in our search for moral bedrock, when
Mount Olympus erodes into the seas and the gods search for a new
universe to call home, the waifs and sanctimonious socialists of
yesteryear will be wandering the great halls of heavenly tablets
searching and searching and forever searching.
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