The faces have started landing on the floor.
The messages from our various potential leaders face up to the ceiling. A league of forced smiles. A collection of tiny faces to stomp on before I drag my child out the door.
It’s a faint surprise. It’s quite clear what each political party has achieved over the past year, decade, week or instant. The penetration we have into the lives of each of these pundit, quango, think-tank, whip-lashed, public-led servants of this country is quite remarkable.
And we chuckle at our leaders. We rage. We write. We complain. We envy. Their personal lives have become our personal lives.
We think we know everything about them.
Now we can even laugh and point at our leaders for having their social media personalities hacked. A scream into the noise about some lucid truth. Some truth that is part of the totality of deception.
When we all see the mask falling from the face of a smiling imposter, we realise that we know absolutely nothing about them. The face is not what we expected to see. And there’s very little we can do to stop the implications of their hushed decisions becoming all the more real. The things we are told about are shrouded in lies and dramatics resolved with expensive legal teams.
Only when we take a step back from the entire shuddering, shivering mess of it do we finally realise that we have poisoned and gutted this world.
So say it. Say no.
Say no to the crushing of the spirit.
Turn your back on the idea of someone else doing your thinking for you.Someone making decisions for you. The only individual I am aware of who can provide a sense of control over my life is me. Consistently. My voice is as important as anybody else’s. As equal, as important as yours, as theirs.
Money, a vicious class indicator, is merely a tool used to stereotype, analyse, and manage large groups of people. The impoverished make up a large group of people, yet the floors of Westminster will never see a raging, stinking drunk howling through his cheeks. Or perhaps they always have done. Tattered rags, bloated bellies and blood soaked horrors. Untouchable savagery.
The very idea of democracy lies gutted. Politics is a filthy game for the weak orchestrated by the brutal.
It is a filthy, repulsive idea to think that money equals fulfilment. To think that a fraction of the wealth of a handful of the world’s richest could be used to ease some suffering somewhere in this world without having any real impact of their lifestyles. I find it horrifyingly puzzling.
It’s hard to see a way out of it. It’s hard to find control sometimes especially when my life is unknowingly controlled for me to some degree. It is easy to feel powerless.
So I ignore the leaflets.
They’re irrelevant to me. There has been too much hypocrisy, blood-shed and falsehood on all sides to convince me otherwise. It is not what I want. To stand behind someone doing my thinking and talking for me.
I can think of my own ideas. I am not as powerless as I think I am.
Neither are you.
If ever you find there’s even the faintest ember of a creative idea bleeding quietly in the corner of your mind, do something about it.
Pull away from the voices urging you to do otherwise.
Whatever it is, whether it be writing, painting, dancing, singing, astronomy or starting a death metal band, follow it. The eternal fire you build from it could blind eternity. The horrors of the world could burn to ashes in the birth of an idea.