Thursday, February 20, 2020
Monday, February 17, 2020
Word Balloons
It is coming again. It lurks just beyond the edge of what we can see, though it's there to be seen if one looks.
It has been just long enough for the world to forget; for the words to be just words, without the horror and misery that filled them. Once again, we will learn their meaning. We will fill up those words with meanings again; as if they were carnival balloons dragging along the ground, devoid of the gaseous-ness that buoyed them in our sight.
Now those who saw the horror and madness of times gone by are all but gone themselves. Their children and fathers lay silent in their graves bearing mute testimony. The rows of nameless crosses are only landscaping now, however carefully manicured.
Now the madmen hold the reigns, fingers poised above the switches; their drooling desires are plain to see. Because we are silently unknowing or uncaring, we will fill new graves with wasted lives. The wealthiest will hide in their protected enclaves, while they aim their madmen to send the poorest to fill the graves. The media will have a boom year and politicians will pontificate. Collection plates will overflow because it's good for all except the dead and mourning.
This time though, we will fill those word-balloons with gaseous horrors we have barely seen before; unthinkable, unprintable things that will shock and awe us until the next time. If there is a next time.
Perhaps they will rise far enough above the horizon that we will not forget, this time.
It has been just long enough for the world to forget; for the words to be just words, without the horror and misery that filled them. Once again, we will learn their meaning. We will fill up those words with meanings again; as if they were carnival balloons dragging along the ground, devoid of the gaseous-ness that buoyed them in our sight.
Now those who saw the horror and madness of times gone by are all but gone themselves. Their children and fathers lay silent in their graves bearing mute testimony. The rows of nameless crosses are only landscaping now, however carefully manicured.
Now the madmen hold the reigns, fingers poised above the switches; their drooling desires are plain to see. Because we are silently unknowing or uncaring, we will fill new graves with wasted lives. The wealthiest will hide in their protected enclaves, while they aim their madmen to send the poorest to fill the graves. The media will have a boom year and politicians will pontificate. Collection plates will overflow because it's good for all except the dead and mourning.
This time though, we will fill those word-balloons with gaseous horrors we have barely seen before; unthinkable, unprintable things that will shock and awe us until the next time. If there is a next time.
Perhaps they will rise far enough above the horizon that we will not forget, this time.
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