1006-1026am
After Midnight. After Meridian. After Moonlight. Adverse Merriment. Etc.
Let's create something that will become a legacy. Let's do something, collectively, in hordes, that will be remembered and repeated for the rest of our lives. We can take personal satisfaction in beginning, now, in the present, the new hundred year traditions. I want to stampede with my brethren through dawn streets, unplugging traffic signals, uprooting small trees: basic anarchy until we are jailed. But there will be too many. They will stop some of us sure, but they sacrificed their freedom for the cause. What cause man? We will sit down at board meetings and invent a cause.
I imagine wild screaming youth scaling the sides of office buildings like slithering rodents. Like free climbers. Some will fall to death by gravity and ground but they sacrificed for the cause. The concrete below interrupts brief meditation regarding the feeling of weightlessness. But the brain is dead before it can react to that feeling. The spinning, swirling sky and the view decreasing as height decreases, the max velocity nearly achieved. One is left to think of their life and other moments they felt so weightless, wind through hair. Like first kisses or winning championships or anything from the heart.
Many of us will die simply searching for this cause. Die to the cause rather than physical death. These thoughts are too uncommon and any sense of organization be dashed. No one believes in anarchy anymore. My zippo is pure black now. No design. No purpose. Anarchy is dead. Let's create something else. Something where we can limited the barrage of mind numbing garbage that hovers around our planet like a plague. So many satellites beaming images onto computer screens and all of our phones always know where we are. We can look up our friends and we can catch them in lies. I knew you were with her! A 3 am wednesday night! Where are you? (I think it's best not to meet up. Remembering St Patty's day last year. Dress shirt and tie. Middle fingers, Lauren's apartment. I don't know if the cat existed yet. Weezy. New name now that I forget. Something cuter, warmer. We drank pure Irish brew and laugh jolly at the prospects of the future. Today I will go back in time and read my writings from then and reminisce fully. From this perspective I am just making up details. Possibly distorting the truth (but distorting the truth is entertaining and fun! we are all just actors!)
Kill your impression manager.
He is a bastard and has stifled you for too long. Oppression. Depression. At his conniving hands. He sits at his huge red oak desk with careful wood carvings for the oppressed to look at while sitting, vegetating, in the small chairs, uncomfortable, he provides for you while you have to wait for him to finish up with his afternoon secretary quickie in the master bathroom that she is only allowed to enter if he is allowed to enter her. He smiles a shit eating grin and places his huge hands on your shoulders and scares the living daylights out of you. You heard no approach. "Now about your appearance he says," evil, sardonic, the worst of mankind, "Don't you think people will judge you in negative light if you dress or act that way, if you try to be an individual?"
"I don't care what they think!" you want scream.
"Oh yes, yes you do." That's my job he smirks.
Before you reply he is strangling you, power crazed.
