When I was a kid I remember looking around. I would see men. I would see women. The oldest would mostly sit still and complain about the good old days. The less old mostly complain about the opposite sex. Sometimes ‘them.’ Other times work.
But the money machine was running wide open. The complaining was mostly humble bragging about how little they had to do to have as much as they did. Hard times, really hard times and tragedy maybe mentioned from the pulpit.
True despair, we were taught, only happened off camera in remote regions.
Yet, there was a distant fraying at the edges of the societal fabric. From time to time I could feel this even as a child late at night wrestling a soft toothless daemon in dreams.
It couldn’t hurt me but was unpinable. It would always squirm away. My fatigue it’s friend.
A generation later the Daemon lives large on tall billboards and loud screens. What was a faint and gnawing exhaustion has eaten the insides of our children. We live inside hollow shells. Torment cracking brightly painted skin to be resealed by pharma porn sportsball cocktails.
But there are those of us who resist slow and sudden demise. We who dive deep into the darkness. Discover its secrets. Master its deception. Weaken its will by testing our own.
Let us make home in belly of beast together.
