The old man's expedition of again and again

When your hands slap onto the matter of the present and your ear peaks at the tweeting of those songbirds with their innocuous progressions they make, not to mention the pieces of flesh that lay upon the unfinished bowl. You can’t help but question whether you’re living in the moment or if you’re instead standing just behind that point upon which your feelings mould. But now that procession has made it to an end, leaving you comfortably seated within those rusted, corrosive wheelchair throes; the cadence of shuffling old men that you’ve just now come to know. All of those creatures have since been plucked out of this world, thrown closer into an eventual point of extinction. Now, their existence has been reduced to a rehearsed kind of jaded roulette from some old-fart-timer who has picked those thoughts right down to the bone. “What’s there to do when nobody’s left,” says the grandson, to which his grandfather replies, “I don’t know, grandson, but I won’t be here- and you’re just getting old.”

They’re training us to be distracted by our toxic plastic wastes and with mind-numbing snares, but what happens when you open your eyes and there’s no longer any people there? Maybe at that point you’ll begin to care, or then again you might get distracted by another flicker of light, or maybe the ringing of the notification bell; oh well, back to that same old staring game. Wipe the blood off of your fingers so that you don’t smear the lens; it might ruin your picture in the end. Now that the time has passed, it’s quite a bit easier to pretend that all of the lifeless pounds of flesh laid out upon streaks of rubble were ever truly human beings in the first place. Your stomach begins to rumble, and suddenly—with a snap, just like that—you’ve got yourself foaming at the mouth with those same rabid eyes.

You don’t have to be a fool to give into the temptation of horrible manners. It doesn’t take a weak brain to bring oneself to spit on the remains of the people with whom you once broke bread, or to crush the skulls of frighten-faced children who once played tag in the sunshine with the blood of your own. And yet, even the sharp man begins to lose his edge and fall into the pit of least resistance, starting from head-to-toe. Once, he was thought of as a rebel; now he’s pulled taught with the skins of other swine!

You don’t have to be a prude to carry out your own nasty blemish of hate against different flavors of human being. But you tell yourself of your magnificence for being able to put aside of all those intangibles, when you really just learned when to zip your mouth. It all works out, putting aside the thought that lay rotting behind your careless, most abstract sockets. “How have I not yet forgot it,” cries his primordial fixation. It’s just another form of sensation to eventually be replaced with the next source of indulgence. He feasts upon the forbidden flesh, no longer with any sense of reservation, now that all sources of judgment have packed up and gone off for the next town.