“And somehow or other, quite anonymous, there were the directing brains who coordinated the whole effort and laid down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, and the other rubbed out of existence.” George Orwell
And we danced like it was the last time, everything felt like the last time now. Light from the candles was flickering off our faces. I pointed to the top of the hill where the old man continued writing. You still could not see him. The star vibrating within my mind led me from the dark hole where memories and truth could be touched as solid objects. I could hear the sound of your voice asking for help, destroying me each time. You told me about the man in the dark hat. The same one I saw. He took away all you were before you even knew there was anything to take. They called him The Colonel you said. You couldn’t forget his face, the way it transformed before your eyes. And you said how you were reaching out for butterflies when you sensed his presence. And you felt like you reached through the sun as a butterfly landed on your hand, and you didn’t feel there was much more you needed to know. You looked down from inside the sun and you could see all the lines down there, all of the division. You close your eyes and fall into the darkness of remembrance. I see you walking next to the dark building as it was changing shape, reaching for butterflies, still unable to see the building…all I ever wanted you to do is hold me. Out here, lost in all of this fog your eyes are opened but you can no longer see. Through the fog I can only hear your heart beating, it’s loud and it’s scared and I can’t ignore the cries. I reach for you as your hand moves further away, pushing me away just…as…I learn…to hold it. I extend my hand through the fog but feel nothing as the sensation of touching my own arm passes along my skin. I wipe the fog away from your eyes and I watch as you process the remembrance of what you once were. You walk towards a tree, The Tree, its shadow casting across your face. I shiver as the image of you holding yourself up against the tree only able to hold its shadow, becomes my own. And you look down at the blood, and something is gone, but you don’t know what it is. The sound of your heart increases in volume as you look into the shadow you are holding in your hand. Unable to move your feet, stuck there in one place, you wish you could disappear into the miasma of the spinning figures approaching you. Can you see that old man with the beard? I cry out to you. Your eyes are lit up by the spinning vortex as you are paralyzed by its movement. Your eyes tell me you know all you need to know, all you were looking for, or all They want you to know.
“If we can only live once, then let it be a daring adventure that draws on all our powers. Let it be with similar types whose hearts and heads we may be proud of. Let our grandchildren delight to find the start of our stories in their ears but the endings all around in their wandering eyes. The whole universe or the structure that perceives it is a worthy opponent, but try as I may I cannot escape the sound of suffering.” Julian Assange #wearemillions