Tomorrow We Dance To Freedom






The Complacent Acceptors - VI

Posted on:

Wiping vigorously the torn cloth jumped in its lonely dance on the exposed pole. The wind carried with it a cold that was colder from the solitude it conveyed. Gray colors trembled before the coming of darkness - no sliver of tenderness was left. Desolation moved about in the burnt grass from a fall left far too quickly. A screen door clanged futilely in its attempt to send a message that all was finally quite. What could be said in reply, no replies would be forthcoming - all was done?

Carrying the past in a pouch the clearing was now shimmering with a ghostly figure walking closer. Was it an aberration of an approaching apocalypse, the messenger of some lost fragment of humanity long ago trampled? No one waited in anticipation of a love lost, of a friend to be found, or of a moment to be relived.

The house sitting lonely with peeling paint, battered side boards, and windows permanently left open cried as the wind tore into its exposed organs. How long had it been since people occupied its rooms? No upcoming rustling in the prairie grass could foretell how close or far this vibrating image was from the torn clothe tattered from many years of flagging down no one.

The gray was being pushed back by blackness but the figure still approached with determination. With the wind reaching seventy miles per hour with no trees to block its powerful punch those exposed out on the plain that was now losing light might freeze to death. Movement was never a guarantee of living, moving limbs propelling a body along a path, breathing, clearly inhaling and exhaling; all these excellent indicators of awareness merely indicated animated life not thinking life. Awareness was the special ingredient necessary, the demanded condition of an unrestrained spirit, an understanding that one's existence impacted the environment. Blank starring emptiness conveyed a vegetative silent resignation, a final exhale of concern, and an acceptance of the powerful.

This walking ghost began to clear with the clearing away of the layers of mist. Torn stain streaked clothes covered its body. Looks of unconcerned absolution had worn deep crevasses into his now visible immobile face. He carried deep a terror and unrequited evil within his burned soul - 'The Gift' that special shattering of the spirit - the removal of the will to be an individual.

The house understood now that this was just another scrapper of flesh: a mere leftover on a planet suffocating under a pile of leftovers. Just an 'extra' seeking shelter for a night or two, a transient passerby, that could not, would not ever comprehend a permanent un-programmed thought.

A few of these hopeless slowly dying dredges from a society governed not by modest rules but by ruthless power floated in now and then. They'd defecate, eat a carcass they'd found along the way, and then open the back door on a new lightening gray day.

These people existed without the neuron structure to envision the future or the higher ethical qualities of an unadulterated human society. They'd continue their search crawling out to meet a sickly morning. No higher ordering of their day could ever be expected for they were an idiot lot. Their brains were a mush of burned out synapses and dead gray matter corrupted by the powerful under "The Rulers" grip.

These people were the sludge of a wasteful society that fed more and more of its members to the ever-hungry abyss. Solace would never place a kind hand on any of these vagrants' shoulders for that was an unnecessary exhibition of weakness. Weakness was not to be tolerated. Only an icy cold pain dripping society could understand their poisoned intolerance.

But even a well ordered mean spirited society couldn't contain the drive of a human being determined to bust through to freedom. The fighting spirit of humankind would never be safely caged behind any absolute or predictable outcomes. Even a beaten, battered human being would tear to bring meaning to his life. Eventually, a single individual would possess the divine spark called determination. This individual would beat the unbeatable odds, and the impossible would become possible.

Clang, bang, bang and the front door went crashing inward pulling on already taunt hinges suffering from other such blows. The ashen face looked around at his surroundings. Only rudimentary concepts flickered in this untidy disfigured mind still clawing to comprehend the large scope of his existence.

Floor solid, less cold, sit, eat, squat, wipe hands on legs, sleep; fading off into oblivion he slept in ignorant bliss.

Jim looked back oblivious to the reason he was drawn to this single broken down house on a dead plain of vacant prairie. He could not reconcile why he'd shuffled to this place so distant from the nearest outpost of civilization. His thoughts were a jumble of incoherent images, feeling, and gnawing pain. Pain that never left him it was his constant companion in this journey he felt he'd never controlled. This pain took two forms both physical and a shadowy untouchable sinkhole. Movement was less his own than a disconnected drift of legs mechanically directed to an unknown destination.

His headache was more painful than usual. Wanting to pound his head to a pulp Jim longingly looks at a jagged edged rock near the step of the back door. Looking at this shattered house makes him feel sick - his headache is now unbearable.

Reaching inside his pants pocket he finds some matches. He strikes a match with trembling hands throwing it through the backdoor of the house. With tearful eyes he ran from the house not stopping until dropping exhausted in the prairie grass.

Flames covered the shell of lost expectations, the house burned to cinders on that same gray day its back door opened for the last time. A small fire spread on bare floorboards igniting a raging fire in this tinderbox that rain hadn't quenched for months.