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May 3, 2020

The Absurdity of Man

      Flicking coldly through the News this morning, wandering the littered halls of once-promising Cyberspace, now filled with garbage, make-believe, & silicon-bloated bottoms…
I'm often (wryly) entertained by the gibbering-posing-fretting Absurdity of Man, and the transparent fashion in which the so-called 'elites' attempt to deviously stamp THEIR vacuous moral sickness on the world.  Not to mention the yawning, scorching wastelands of their superficially alluring, but practically wasted & squandered lives.
If I was a space traveler, from a much more noble, yet humble, enlightened species, a mere quarter billion years in advance of our own 'Homo Maximus Stupidus', what would I (sadly) message back to my own peaceful planet, safely tucked away ten galaxies over?
That Man is still as dumb & greedy, short-sighted, terminally materialistic as ever?  

Watch the headlines during this Corona Totalitarian Control Experiment. Enjoy the irony.
Oh, I say. Here's just ONE guru of endless greed & acquisition, convinced of his magnificence:
“Warren Buffett says Berkshire Hathaway have sold ALL $4bn of its airline stocks because of the effect of the Corona virus, but tells investors they should still 'bet on America'… “

Of course he does. Imagine if people stopped (cough) 'betting on America'?? (such a NICE phrase) (translated as 'serving Mammon', prostrate, on all fours) (slobbering).
Perish the thought. That wouldn't do! Who is he going to sell his rubbish to?
Keep betting, folks!

Meh.

The headlines are full of the poorly disguised (screaming) contradiction between the ordinary slob losing all his sh*t, literally, and the insider 'elites' doing perfectly fine, thank you. It's gotten to where the usual market fixers & manipulators have got to throw in a (much publicized) pretend-loss here or there, of a few billion, lest the slobs 'betting on America' start carrying pitch forks. And Molotov cocktails.

Living, dear apostles of greed & insatiable, shallow cunning, has a 100% fatality rate. None of you preening, smug Fat Cats are going to get out of this alive. Such a neat thought. Count your pu-pu-profits, while you can. Those fleeting binary codes, briefly encoded into an impersonal mainframe computer. Somewhere. Itself, ultimately owned by an even more impersonal, aloof, bunch of flickering-digit-obsessed, cigar chomping, proud, honker-nosed, puffs of wind.

Some of us, you walking predator-corpses, regard you with a mixture of contempt and pity.
Your game is NOT the only game in town.
I know, you would never listen to us. We waste our time suggesting you should look up, wistfully, at the stars at night. Feel small. And hear the breeze, playing through the lonely pines. And long for something higher.

Much, much higher.

Our quietest thoughts, like fingers lightly dancing across a tired, coffee-stained key board, pluck lovingly at the lute strings of a searching heart.  

Probe. The innermost yearning.

Of our silent, deepest dreams.