OneA Chapter by Jonny The Savage1
It was a cold day, the day that he had lost faith in himself. Much colder than the day that he had given up on his fellow man, "easily entranced fools buying snake oil for salvation and nonsense for knowledge," as he would oft describe them, in the kind of infinite sadness that only one who knew the true potential of man could. The cosmos seemed measurable in comparison. Somehow more finite, somehow less hopeless. He would find himself, lost in the age old intangibly
romantic notion that things must be better somewhere, staring into
the starlit sky. It was one of the last vestiges of beauty left in this world,
and there was a sort of kinship that he felt, as he mused on who else may have
enjoyed the same scenery throughout history. It was distant, but it felt like
more of a bond than he'd ever felt with the population of his own era. "Narcissists
knee deep in delusions of grandeur, always one step from the pitfall of
prosperity." What a joke. What an absolute irony. The belief of
superiority over the more evolved epochs of human history. And for what?
Convenience that has all but quelled the seeking nature of mankind? The
prewritten, predecided policy that you profligately push to prevalence among
the populace. The loss of any semblance of truth from nearly every medium and
representative? The need to wade neck deep in legal jargon and research just to
have a clue of what's going on in the world beyond the veil of ignorance. And
they wear it like a crown. Damned fools...all of them...and they think that
they are the best and greatest that ever were. Call it poetic justice, call it
"Brave new world". Call it whatever helps you sleep at night, because
this is the dark eternal night of mankind. The days where darkness defines the
minds of men, where love and understanding are the ultimate sin. Atlas chuckled again. "How long has it been? Thirteen years?" "Since Morgan let you go for your little 'ad' for Blitzcorp saying that they put poison in their softdrinks? Yeah, about that..." "...And you'll notice that there's still hasn't been a defamation suit. Remember the ads that followed mine?" Atlas chuckled once more then recited: "So good it'll KILL you." "THRILL you THRILL. And yes, I remember them, who do you think produced them?!" responded a less than jubilant Barry. Thunderous laughter lit up Atlas's expression, "you have to admit slogans never were your strong suit." An irritated Barry offered in defense: "and you have to admit that following the rules was never your strong suit. Otherwise we would both still be working at Radantta Advertising and Public relations. " Atlas, of course, laughed again. "You couldn't be more correct about one of those things Barry...and it's not that I wanted to make a living lying to people. I've always believed in self-sovereignty, and I don't see that ever changing." "But there is no place for dissent in this system Atlas. You know as well as I that it's everyone's responsibility to bring about social justice. Otherwise, how else will we achieve a truly classless society?" Barry offered, seeming to miss the entirety of what his counterpart had said. "There's no room for social justice in a libertarian society, Barry, you know that," Atlas in turn said mockingly. Barry's jaw dropped, the state was his god, spirituality went way over his head; the head that dreamt only of an atheist society as some sort of utopia, not the condition for killing over one hundred million people in the 20th century..."There's no such thing Atlas, and you know that!" Atlas laughed rather loudly; Barry's face contorted in rage. "Of course there is, Barry, while you worship authority and lick the 'boot stamping on your face - forever', I'd prefer my freedom and happiness. Why don't you think you deserve these things Barry? Is it simply that being footloose scares you and you need big daddy government to step in to tell you what is and isn't true, just to feel secure and content?" Barry became so upset that he almost hit Atlas with his bony, limp arms. "Take it back or I'll destroy you!" Atlas laughed again, gazing at Barry's tiny frame and knowing his fear of guns, or any other sort of weapon. "Are you really that deluded? FOOL. Your arms are the size of a garden hose....you have never once thought of changing this, because it's masculine and you had to 'fight the patriarchy'...you really are a sad LITTLE man...and I cannot emphasize little enough. Get the F**K off of my property before you get yourself hurt. Come back when you've learned a little more about how the world works, you imbecilic communist." ***
After Barry left in tears, Atlas sauntered to his study. Upon arriving, he immediately turned to his stereo system, selects his collection of Chopin; and selects 12 Etudes, Op. 10: No. 12 in C minor, "Revolutionary" and began to write in an old faded notebook. Everybody.
Everything. Everywhere. The human spirit broken down into
disrepair. An inevitable creep, although some
choose to crawl, Some still asleep, others backs against the
wall. The nightmares of our present were
dreamt in the past. The future we had? Spent. Yet Shiva
continues to dance. The animal in man always comes hat in hand With something like foresight, for this
day he had planned. When the human cattle, little more than
cogs in the machine. Would cease to dream of dissent, unable
to believe they'd been deceived. To believe that living vicariously is
a life well spent... Call it Heaven for the weather, but I
think it's in Hell we pay rent.
Atlas smiled to himself as he dotted the final period of his recent composition. "Atlas, old boy, you've done it again." he thought to himself after rereading the poem and decided that he it was time that he had a cup of tea and a spliff. The aging poet made his way to the kitchen and selected Egyptian licorice tea to drink, as he almost always would. The stove was turned on, the water needed was measured in a pirate mug and dumped into a green tea kettle with rust spots on the bottom. He placed the tea kettle onto the scorching circle of red on his stove. He then proceeded to rip open the two bags of tea that would be needed for the brew, putting both into the kettle with the strings hanging down the side of it. Then he tore the packaging the tea bags had come in and dumped the leftover fragmented licorice root, cinnamon bark, orange peel, ginger root, cardamom seed, black pepper and clove bud into the slowly boiling kettle. Within the next thirty seconds it came to a boil and Atlas moved it onto a portion of the stove that wasn't on and taking the lid off and placing it vertically so the steam could escape and he could enjoy his favorite tea. Luckily the tea that he drank was organic, and thus safe from the intervention of mad men seeking control through any means necessary. Atlas pondered if Barry would ever see the error in his strict adherence to an ideology that's entire premise is that of impossibility, as he rolled himself a spliff; waiting for the herbal tea to finish steeping. Within 10 minutes, Atlas was on his roof, sipping his favorite tea and enjoying a, as he thought, well deserved reward for both dealing with a rabid communist and writing another piece to add to his already prolific collection. He gazed at the stars, feeling much more relaxed, and began to do what he always had; ask for guidance from his ancestors and the strength to continue on such a difficult and likely dangerous path. When he opened his eyes again he saw a shooting star in his direct line of sight that almost seemed to be falling to Terra. Closer and closer it came; and that's when Atlas realized that this was no shooting star, at least none that his decades of stargazing had seen. He watched it so intently that he had to relight his spliff to finish it and got to enjoy cold licorice root tea. He sat there on the edge of the roof for quite some time watching the assumed meteorite until he saw it crash into somewhere in the east. "It's just a meteorite, maybe I can go for a hike and find it tomorrow, it didn't seem to be all that far away. I should just get some sleep though, it is relatively late," he thought to himself as he prepared for and went to bed. After tossing and turning for a while, the chronic severe insomniac fell asleep. © 2017 Jonny The SavageReviews
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3 Reviews Added on September 30, 2015 Last Updated on March 20, 2017 Author
Jonny The SavageAtlantis, Apple RockAboutAesthete, philosopher and scholar first; and a writer, poet and musician second. A rather blunt individual with no regard for dogma or taboo. A curious soul seeking the truth beyond this mortal coil. more..Writing
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