Eulogy To The Realm

When we found you dead, we thought that was the end of the whole lot. We thought the world would be empty. Hopeless; every dream dead, too. What we couldn't know at that moment was that you weren't the world. At least, not everyone's. And you wouldn't render dreams truth. The best you would ever do was reflect our dreams back to us as terror. You weren't always there before; apparently, you weren't meant to be there after.

To know then what's known now.

You ruled through fear, estranged from everyone around you. None of me wanted to be you, near you, or envy you. But, perhaps more accurately, a small reserve of me couldn't deny the allure of power. There was a degree of enjoyment, even pleasure, from my accessory status. Completely safe. Culpably engaged, but an actor born to amnesty, never to face the consequence of our connectedness. At least, not on the current plane. My credence doesn't care about any other ones, though.

To truly face the tune of our fuckery would be a feat. Although, perhaps, ask not for whom the bell tolls.

There were plenty of what you could call omens of what was to come. More attuned to the last chapter of the good book than one generally cares to confess. Uncomfortably close to prophesy.

Locusts and strange weather phenomena, mass death, sunless sky, plague; name the tragedy, and the tragedy occurred. There was no peace, only the construct of peace, understood as absence and created to quell the masses.

The occurrence that made me keenly aware of the end of our era was the beast from the sea—not the beast from your dreams, those late-rendered horrors, but the beast of essence—the one that pollutes even the most pure attempts to thwart malevolent control.

"Defeat the beast from the heart. Enter at the core and tear outward." They say.

But even the most benevolent end faces debasement by absolute means.

Seven heads, ten horns, and several blasphemous names seem the perfect metaphor for the powers that fouled our world. One craves metaphor or whatever else offers a degree of separateness from the problem. A chance to say parallels can be found but not draw scores from one to the other. When the metaphor successfully detaches truth, the beast bashes on.

To see the truth means to understand the seven heads as branched powers. They grasp control through concealed means and double entendres. The "blasphemous names," freedom, love, autonomy, and others, obscure the real goal–to extract and consume.

We gave our word, but our word was a tall tale, a myth shared by the masses, a babble through the streets. There was never to be any follow-through—not for everyone.

But that was then, not now. Now, the have-nots have the upper hand. The emergence of a new way beckons to those able to see, a clenched hand to those who would attempt to go back.

My next move must be underground before my name becomes known. As an anonymous purveyor of government thought, "known" becomes a great danger pendant le coup d'État. We scattered–cockroaches to the dark– those of us who took the orders, those who followed the old law. We lost contact and created fresh faces. Not even our loved ones knew what was to come. They would become fodder for the Great Change, lambs to the new gods, and fuel for the revolt. Whatever the Fates choose for them, we comply. Martyred or not, we may never know, but to flee alone must be our course.

We couldn't have known the world would not end upon the upheaval of our system. The concept of mutually assured death held us close and lulled us to ease. No country would dare attempt to loosen our hold on the global order. Not under the threat of mass state-funded and endorsed murder. Nuclear World War.

Our false sense of safety destroyed our chance to keep the shroud of unawareness and apathy over the masses. We lost the war we created.

Yes, your death cemented the doom of our culture and legacy, but these creators of new systems spark hope—hope that becomes the catalyst for people to become unfettered, to break free from the rule that shackled our ancestors. My observance of you stemmed from unease and dread, not concurrence or deference. And now look, my world has been toppled for my weakness.

Stated or not, my consent would be clear to those who would judge my case–treason to the courts of the new world. Judgment would be prompt, and my sentence hasty. The latest powers that be would not shy away from a show of speed and strength. An attempt to demonstrate ascendancy. "New" may not look so new at the basal level. One could expect all manner of unspeakable conduct from people when true freedom happens to be at stake. Blame cannot be placed on the heads of those who rebel. The fault falls at the feet of those who oppressed. My feet.

Run, coward. Run.

My legs refuse my demand. A thought holds me steady, anchored to the ground, unmoved.

Carte Blanche seemed so good before. Now, doubt creeps toward my frontal lobe. Perhaps the only way to save myself would be to turn myself over to the new powers. Let them choose my fate and maybe they can show mercy. After all, we were once the same.

To assemble an equal state, one that represents people and not money, was my dream once. The old ways warped that dream, so self-regard became my only concern. My words and acts have not felt harmony for years, so a change must be made to unburden. To hold out, away from the world, would be a fool's errand and yet another betrayal of my morals. That treachery has gone on long enough.

So, the change starts now. Don't run.

Confess and earn a part of the true free world–not for the soul, but for the good.

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Author's Note: I started this with only a few days left in the challenge. Life has been busy reminding me that living isn't free, and the burnout from trying to keep up has prevented most of my creative efforts. My apologies for being late to the party, but I hope you enjoyed my offering.