Merrily, verily, we roll along, wading through the inner sanctum of society's muck. The human mud of murky emotionally disturbed slop. Endless raw sewage flowing in and out. The seas of civilized waste byproducts accumulate, backing up in the collective consciousness and clogging the thought process. Microplastics of forever chemicals course through toxic silicone hearts. Drowning masses fight the waves of sludge to stay afloat against the ever-rising tide of useless information and shoddy goods piling up, flooding planet. Those who doggy-paddle try to stay afloat keeping their heads above the slimy surface, struggling to breathe the stench of stale air from their self-inflicted mess. Gasping for breath, swallowing dead, sludgy water. Here and there, floaters, face down, bobbing bloated bags of floundering flesh, swelled balloons filled with fetid methane gas. Some explode under the extreme pressure. It’s a mess. They tried to warn us long ago, but no one heeded the call. Nobody is tooting their horns anymore.
No news is good news. I wish I could tell you all is swell, but it’s hard to swallow when you dwell in an outhouse. If you’re in it up to your chin, keep your mouth shut. Some lucky survivors build rafts from debris floating about. Just large enough to fit their emaciated bony butts on. Raw beauty and horror are indistinguishable here. No one can tell the difference between truth and fiction. Distract from the facts of reality discarded, unknown to when nothing is true or real any longer. Dumbing down to the lowest common denominator is like trying to flush a clogged toilet with your hands.
Greedy hordes beg for more greediness. Who wants to be a billionaire? All vanity is love in vain. Pride before the downfall. So goes the life and times of the insignificant trifles leading to self-destruction. The origins of Latin vernacular are still shared by religious zealots, misguided poets, and putrid politicians. At morning mass, wearing your best Sunday-go-to meeting garb. The verbiage is nevertheless clear. Nolo contendere. The rise and fall of the sun and moon above ancient, doomed civilizations. It’s written in the stars. E pluribus unum, the first shall be the last. All others pay cash.
All is vain in a house of mirrors. All is vanity in the looking glass. The vitriolic rhapsody of rhetorical questions is clear when answers give in to interpretation. There’s no better way to celebrate truth in beauty. The bane of the hideous world. This makes for an interesting life. The acidity in this burning crucible of crud dissolves the flesh to the bone. What is there still around when nothings left to burn?
The acrid stench burns hair in the nostrils. Turns the skin to rough leather rawhide. In the end we lose everything we never had. Forget about everything you know or think you knew. Only as strong as the weakest among us. Paradox is the parody of what is, as opposed to what ain’t. It’s a joke told by fools like me who love life way too much. So much so that I want more living to do in the afterlife. Yes, that’s right! You cannot take anything away. Stealing time to pay off future debts. Take a loan out on the past. Your buying power isn’t your lousy credit score. Rob the rich, feed the poor. Nobody wants to pay for the game anymore. Garbage in, garbage out.
We’re all imposters. Blindly clutching masks behind the veil, as the world bubbles and churns around us in a playful cesspool. In the maze of mediocrity, stuck in the labyrinth of excess emptiness, the echo of yesteryear’s truth drowned by today’s landfill of lies, each voice another drop added in the ever-rising flood of garbage. We drift, haunted by the glitter of the golden age.