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patchwork narrative - Fatality
3 years ago
patchwork narrative - Fatality
Autumn feels morning wane of my energy.  Daylight’s force seeps
through despite dark drapes.  She hopes such hours of weakness
will ease persuasion.  Her voice calm, even, engaged in conversation,
drips into me like soft summer rain.
“A person can be noble, sensible, even wonderful.  People are
mean crazy.  A person striving for sanity gets wiped out in the
madness.  The self-justified angry crowd will just converge to pin
you down and apply deadly pressure.  They’ll cry, whine, simper
that you’re the cause of their lethal behaviors.  You are the enemy
who refuses to fit their expectations or unwritten rules.  The truth,
that it’s not about you at all, it’s just what they do for amusement,
to fill some minute of their emptiness, what does that matter? 
They win a stupid, miserable battle because they’re all about the fight,
all about taking out any foreign concept or perpetrator of perceived slight.
The war continues because soldiers are so much fun to play with,
so easy to control by those who enjoy divide and conquer games.
For the few outsiders who don’t want to play, well, we make good
training exercise targets.”
She settles into her quiet tirade, gesticulates with grace, profundity.
“That’s a lousy social function, a target to ridicule or overpower with
pain and shame.  I have no effect on this world, no path to a successful
future.  My best bet is what, a vampire’s house pet, me and my crazy
mom.  We could be a retro macabre sitcom.  Oh, yeah, in our own closed
circuit because nobody else is watching.  How long would even you, oh
eternal one, have an interest in putting up with our sweet domestic
degeneration?  I’m not so amusing when all my magic eye sees is
barren dust, empty recursive entropy, shattered ideations like mirror
splinters lost from reflection.  So very tired.”
Her demeanor is limp.  Her eyes flutter, close, reopen as dark stare.
“I know you are tired, Autumn, overwhelmed still by undigested
trauma.  Y
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