Dreaming of a messianic revenge. Of an impossible vindication. Of being rewarded for being beta men and women types.
Seeing if we can magic the defeat of the world from our own defeat. Claiming triumph in our meekness, as the meek.
Trying to conjure brilliance from stupidity, genius from mediocrity. Hating the world because we’re not strong enough to love it.
The world’s not stupid. The world’s not fooled.
We can’t stand the world because the world can’t stand us. Because it knows what to make of us. Because it’s wise to our true calibre. To what we really are.
Our madness is just tedious. Our pyrotechnics, spent. Our joke fireworks all burnt out.
Our posthumous torments. Our throwback existentialism. Our very-late-for-the-party philosophical Angst.
We’re Abendland tossers. The latest of all latecomers. The most untimely of all. But in a bad way.
No one wants to hear our message. To see us wave our posthumous flags.
The party’s over. The end, come and gone. We were too late to be late.
No one objects to us, not really. We’re no threat. No one’s actually trying to shut us down. We surprise no one. There’s even less interest in us than before.
We’re exactly where they want us. We’re doing exactly what we’re supposed to. We’re fulfilling our role – our non-role. We’re deepening our irrelevancy.
We haven’t even been arrested. Haven’t even been DEW’d.
We raise no red flags. There’s no warrant out for our arrest. We appear on no wanted posters. There’s no bounty on our heads.
We’re a type, and they know our type. They know what to do with us. What box we fit in.
They’ve got us where they want us. They’ve parked us here. We’re nothing to fear.
No need for any special attention to be paid to us. We’re not worth the effort to assassinate.
They know our inputs and our outputs. We’re predictable. Mappable. Even obvious.
The tedium of our invectives. The boredom of the same old same old. Virtuosos of mediocrity, nothing more. Our freaks’ chorus. Our collective groan. Our – hyperbole. Haven’t we said it all? And too many times?
Work in Progress 