The Delicate Balance of Terror 12

“All one knew was that every quarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was with every class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a shadow – world in which, finally, even the date of the year had become uncertain.” George Orwell

They took it away in the night, lurking in the shadows, waiting. In the shadows of the moon I watched them escape silently, leaving nothing behind. I clutched onto Bunny, but he couldn’t protect me from them. A river appeared below me. I knew It would come back, and I knew I would feel guilty and shed tears for the wrong I caused. I could no longer open my eyes without seeing my eyes looking back at me, haunted by an idea of myself. I promised you, all of you and I lied, and now I’m dying inside. I felt your voices rise up from the ashes, no longer separate from me. I remember you came to me, crying, there was blood. You didn’t know where it was coming from, but it wouldn’t stop. The only thing your mind could recall was getting out of that helicopter and you couldn’t hear anything because of the noise. You thought you had died until you saw your daddy. Seeing him made you so happy but he wouldn’t look at you, he wouldn’t touch you and you died a little more. I only could see the light emanating from you as you lie there, a patch of fog blocking my sight. I see my face again in the gleam of your eyes and I wasn’t selling anything.

-The hands reaching out from the shadows appear to be his own. The screen still shows his face, day by day growing a little older. He has been staring at his face for an eternity now, but it still seems unchanged. He can see her down that long corridor, the last time they said goodbye. When everything was still burning and shrouded in fog. She told him there was a map and he knew she was talking about the map of return. The soldiers were marching, materialized from his eyes. They were here to take everything, as lightning and thunder rumbled and the whirring came again. How did you know we did this? But Colonel, I just made it up, I don’t Know. He clutches his face and stares at his eyes looking out at him from the screen. The children, why were you taking away the children? where did they go? How did you know? I was one, I can’t remember but…I was one

The Detective floats up into the sky, formlessly stretching into eternity. Monitored, stamped, catalogued, shot up with a smile. His being which was now the essence of the bomb, is strapped to a plane. The wind up toys are continuously signing things, and randomly shooting sparks from their mouths. Sign, collect money, sign, collect, it’s all they know. They form a line of protection, blocking our sight, a barrier to truth protected with sparks. They don’t have mirrors here, how can they? Sign, collect, stamp, push buttons, don’t hear the children cry. He looks down at the map below him, half of it is on fire, the other half marching, hands raised, the echoes of their voices pushing him towards the sun. The buttons being pushed are leading him in the opposite direction. He clutches his hat in an attempt to keep himself together. He begins falling from the plane and he remembers the desert, and how the sun cried on him and he remembers the old man and he wondered how he would be written out of this.

“If we have brains or courage, then we are blessed and called on not to frit these qualities away, standing agape at the ideas of others, winning pissing contests, improving the efficiencies of the neocorporate state, or immersing ourselves in obscuranta, but rather to prove the vigor of our talents against the strongest opponents of love we can find.” Julian Assange #wearemillions

The Delicate Balance of Terror 11

“…as he readjusted the Ministry of Plenty’s figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connection with anything in the real world, not even the kind of connection that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version.” George Orwell

I am wrapped in a foetal position, my face lies on the cold sand as the ocean waves crash over my body along to the beat of my heart. The moon is reflected off the ocean encapsulating her as she rows further away from me but still seems stuck in one area. Words whisper through my ears, why did you jump in the well, how did you survive, did you want to come back up, was someone chasing you, was Something chasing you? I don’t have any answers. As I repeatedly blink my eyes I see my face on that sign, no life in them, did you get pricked? But it’s not me, or maybe I just don’t recognize that Me. Let me be your little brother, I was saying with a smile that was no longer my own.

-There was a thousand page script placed before him that wasn’t there yesterday. The fans were ablaze in the chat because no one could find the exact moment it was placed there. There was a whirring noise materializing from overhead, which immediately forces his body to mildly convulse. He felt a warm shadowy hand on his back colonel what are you holding? The shadowy hand points at the script, this is it. The shadow leaves in a trail of fire as the whirring sound fades away. A sighting of shadows which were not The Director’s own is reported in the chat which is obsessed over for weeks without any real conclusions. A noticeable wrinkle appears running down The Director’s face. In front of him, his eyes can now perceive a burst of fire. Her hands reach through the burning pyre as he is overcome with an odd sense of inner warmth. The shadowy hand returns to his back and bursts into flames. He closes his eyes in an attempt to hear her words whispering to him through the flames. He can only hear the whispers of the shadows as they are marching along the shore having their minds taken away by a dark barely visible hand.

The Detective’s feet are strapped to the conveyor belt as he continues along, growing younger and younger the closer he gets to the building. There is a crane which reaches into the shadows at the end of the conveyor belt. It is mechanically removing something from inside of them and placing it into the bombs which are then attaching themselves to the planes. As he looks down at his feet he sees they are now shrouded in a swirling darkness. He looks out through his now much younger eyes, only able to see the shadow which he has become.

“Every time we witness an injustice and do not act, we train our character to be passive in its presence and thereby eventually lose all ability to defend ourselves and those we love. In a modern economy it is impossible to seal oneself off from injustice.” Julian Assange #wearemillions