Ancient voices crying, crying for their wounds are far too modern. Resurfacing, re-bleeding, stitches undone, for they were all too little.
The wound will not heal, the disease will not subside. Health does not produce the absence of sickness, but the guarantee of survival. This body, this nation, this nation of bodies, it is all too sick, rot and decay slink upon each limb.
But we are not nations, we are bodies, we may shed the superfluous skin of law. Wipe ourselves, make ourselves. Clean.
Going forward there are no rules, there are no laws. Let us revolt, and declare a new state, a state of nature. In our nation, president or dictator, law giver or law enforcer, all meet an equal and fitting end. They are cannibalized, reformed, laid to rest so their obsolescence may feed the plants and animals of our natural state.
Modernity is really rather out of fashion anyways. Though, not for some sentimental sense that,”Some things never change.” But rather because,”some things are always true.”
As in life there is a certain truth to death, an honesty, something that all together, modernity is quite lacking in its deceptive infinitude.
...
Ancient gods paint fiery faces with their eyes. Grace turned to power. Another failed ideal, the corrosion of a form. It’s all been done before, so have no fear, all you will lose is the thin and illusory veil of peace. All you gain is total war.
Young gods and new gods, they’re always bickering, the fists and tears always come down. Of course, their gods can never win, they’re all too proud, too vile, too awash with the sins of their time and place.
And of course the same sins that keep them from victory keep them from defeat, they’ll never admit their evident loss. After all, how could one admit the things they’ve done. Horrors upon horrors, pleasures upon pleasures.
***
“But you’re probably not interested in these matters eh?”
“After all, you aren’t a god are you? You don’t look to be.”
“Yes, yes, you are quite fearful, your eyes are much different… Much different.”
“And such beautiful eyes, yes yes. A shame really, your fate with eyes like those.”
“But anymore and I’ll have said too much, I can see that. Yes, why have you come here?”
You peer off into the distance, surrounded by rolling hills, grass waving between your resting fingers, low clouds float about and above, and a warmth fills the scene. Flowers, sun, blue, green.
You look back to the old servant, though their age is really more a measure of time than a measure of youth.
“I see then, it isn’t fate.”
“Yes it’s your choice, though I can’t imagine why. But I’m sure you know.”
“But once you go, won’t you forget?"
"Or perhaps you like the struggle of remembering.”
You stand up, begin walking, and the construct falls away. You return to life.
So one sees, it’s all a game, that’s why strange things are significant. Why did you choose to be alive? Why choose entropy, why choose suffering and the other pains of life?