[One for the History Books, 510 words, Genre: Experimental]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
The choice was absurd, yet it was a choice. And a choice once chosen cannot be avoided, only vindicated. For no matter what choice is made, argument and sanction are put forth to support it. The idea of cabin fever would, eventually, vehemently take hold and seize the individual by the core of their being and one day they would all step outside. For now they waited inside, indoors, through the jurisdiction of their own decree. Sentencing themselves to fortuitous solitude. They all chose that. Being abandoned by their own parents’ misgivings. Being shunned by social politics. They took cave and creation within the confides of four walls. Trapped in their own rooms to take shelter from the storm.
The storm of drug abuse and narcissism that swept across a world infatuated with celebrity status and making a mark upon civilization. And from whence a global network of communications was created every individual had an outlet for their talent, or lack thereof, to be ascribed across a virtual wall. Lost in a secretion of time consuming activities, created for no other purpose but to entertain and feed the ego. And thus they all perpetuated the activities, propelling forth systems of support for their menial activities and marked their generation into disrepute by recording themselves suckling at the devil’s teats. No sacrifice was given and they all laughed and lived it up, making mockery of everything that countless generations had previously endured. For every generation previous to the one encountered had had some struggle in which they faced to assure the survival of the human race. Perhaps the shit storm of reality was too confronting and like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, people chose to ignore rather than confront any traditional concept of heroism. Yet they all knew, somehow they knew, that without their sacrifice future generations be damned. Then there was this, the problems in the world were too vast, too complex to be solved that a great reckoning was the only solution. It was the problem and the solution. For if the confusion that had amassed continued to occur, then a distortion of the concept of life would be created and life, without its drive, became meaningless.
One day those that sheltered themselves inside their four walled prisons would wake. Those that had dedicated themselves to solitary confinement for the fear of their coherents of the same generation. They would wash away the sleep from their eyes with their own tears at the savage wake of a hundred million damned souls.
What then? The machine ticks on? Adaptability seems the only recourse for such instances. You fuck and you breed about seven billion of these motherfuckers and shit is going to get intense pretty quickly. That coupled with perverse entertainment. It just becomes a whitewash… Like rataratatta… Because there’s too much going on to keep up with everything… So you just say fuck it and ignore the chaos that seems to be endlessly unravelling all around you and focus on one thing: a clean, crisp beer.