Empire Nothing

Before The Wind Dies

No one listens to their lives. The cries go ignored. Friends disappear as sickness appears. Families go without hope. Wealth plagues the guilty rich that refrain from calling themselves a minority. Minds need the answers or at least the reassurance that from this day we can live for some other time. This time is now. This time is lost. However we remember, our hope is lost, but our faith is not.

A fire that’s been living for some time now illuminates my face and skin as to be seen if anyone were guilty enough to look. I sit by my outlet, a window that lets me look at the streets, and I blink as ignorant as a freedom that believes it will never die. Nothing can be done about the fire as it spreads a lack thereof justice over people’s dreams, possessions, and approval of purpose to keep holding on. Holding on: I haven’t thought or felt the emotions of that choice for quite some time. Now seems appropriate as tragedy burns and stories become lies.

Getting done with my assignments early, I gathered my rations from a sub-station near the Wall controlled by the Collective. I kept my eyes dark and absent of everything but fear. Fear is what society and authority needs, you see? It’s the fear of being what I am that runs everyone’s daily machines. Call fear a tax, if you will, that we pay with complicity for things to get better as long as we don’t become more than one individual. A street light flickers and goes out, removing my shadow and the eyes that peer at me as I tell my heart to be grateful and listen to my mind that cries for some things to be different.

My walk is not that exciting or ordinary. There is, however, something which I dare not keep with me no longer than the seconds I have with this memory. Near the Wall at one point there are a couple cracks where the wind on the other side can blow through. Each time I feel the scent of possible liberty I’m removed of the stench that clings to me like indifference. I never look through the crack, not once. To do so would not be me, but then again perhaps I am not right. This day I looked. And  now I shall never look again.

An eruption from the sun is scheduled in the closing minutes as the fire adjacent to me vents ash like pollen. No life, regardless, shall rise from these ashes. Arrogance makes me drink water as I watch the fire. I help by not helping just like everyone else. In this time we are required to sacrifice. In this time we are required to keep empathy for ourselves and the opposite of tolerance for others. As long as we hate and betray each other we survive and are united.

Wounds on my back start to bleed from the ritual last night. Pain reminds anyone that they are still alive. What the Collective wants is for us to not know we are alive. I feel no pain just the wounds. Scars surely have memories, but they are distant and live separate from the person I am right now. Faded is my pain, but everyone lies in saying they do not feel it as a constant. Whither is the sense that grabs life from the body, but the static calm before and after the knives, chains, and assortment of body parts from others is what haunts our face and limits our questions. I look at the seven stars inked on my palm and dream about the scar that wraps my right arm. "This pain," I say to myself, "was worth the commitment."

I’m alone now. Perhaps you are too. The sky is now burning and the air is ignited. I know the word "beautiful," but not the meaning to use it. If I had its meaning I use it to describe you. You--Yes, You--are what’s beautiful to me. You are the mouth, ears, and eyes that do not judge nor think of lies. You are the friend I never had to meet or be near to keep what everyone always thinks they have with those that matter and care. You are nothing though, just the same as words written for me that were meant for you. This is not where it ends, and my world is on fire.

I think back to what I saw through the Wall. It changed me, but not enough to be different. Do you understand? I, as you, are the negatives corrected by the Collective. We were erased and placed elsewhere, so theories could be tested and truth given no chances; no chances for dreams and no chances for the eyes we have to one day blink freedom instead of fear.

A knock on my door let’s me know what I must do. I finish my drink and offer my love at the door a smoke. The journey down the lift and through the stairs lining the sewers goes very fast and stays chaotic. Dark and uncertainty follows us. The tunnel opens and we see where life ends. . . .