Revolution. What is that? Change… okay. But to what end? For change’s sake? Really? Have you ever seen a revolution that really changed things? What happens after the revolution, if it is successful? All I see is the basic stages of human political endeavor repeating themselves: perversion, subversion, inversion, new version… of the same old shit. The new boss is the same as the old boss. I wonder who said that for the first time. Probably some stone-age man, thinking about just having had his ass kicked by the boss and his cronies again. The new boss. So, you see, things haven’t changed much for a damned long time. God help us all… oh, shit, I don’t believe in God, so what now…?!
Two strawberries lie on a wood cutting board, one has been bitten in to. The man who has just bitten in to the strawberry wipes at the drops of juice that have fallen on the piece of paper he is writing on. He drinks a bit of wine, thinking that the wine has real character. He stops and wonders if he should think about his life, but decides it isn’t necessary. Another drop of wine. The strawberries are quite delicious. He lights a pipe of hashish, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs. Recently he’s been told he may have cancer, but he doesn’t really believe it. Even if he really had it, it wouldn’t phase him. Cancer is mostly curable, so he thinks. His chances are good. And he always has been lucky with important things. He eats the rest of the strawberry, there’s just one left.
Wine. Smoke. The fact is, he doesn’t have cancer, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t care, even if it turns out he will have to die… because he has children. Beautiful children that make everything whole. He knows, without thinking of it, that he can leave them and they will survive. Even if he dies he has given them power for life, strength to keep on. He is sure of it. He bites in to the last strawberry; it’s amazingly tasty for this time of year. He decides to save half for later and takes a smoke. It’s not like I want to die, he reflects. Fuck no, I want to live, and enjoy it as long as I can. Might be five weeks, might be 50 years. He grabs the bottle and pours another glass. He doesn’t know what to write anymore, so he goes and takes a piss. The children are snug in bed. He flushes the toilet by mistake, but no one wakes up. He goes and drinks some more wine, and smokes some more hashish. Half a strawberry is looking up at him from the cutting board. First more wine. Should he get some bread and cheese? No, somehow, the remaining half a strawberry will have to do. Wonderful. He eats it and takes a mouthful of wine afterwards, letting the taste mingle in his mouth. Heady.
Don’t give up. You’ve got to fight when you’re cornered. You have no choice, you’ve got nothing to lose… so fight. Most likely, you aren’t in the corner you thought. Maybe you’re not in any corner at all, but rather on the open road. Alone, no cover in sight, the eagle swooping down… Well then, fight. Go down screaming bloody murder if go down you must, but don’t fucking whine. Take it from an incorrigible whiner. Besides, maybe they are not after you in the first place. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they are after you.
It isn’t power you want. You don’t want the ability to destroy things, or to mend things. You want the feeling that things are right as they are. The feeling that you are fulfilling your destiny. You want serendipity. Everything is in place, dammit, every single little piece… from the smallest insect creeping along the twig of the bush next to you, to the little knowing smile on the face of your loved one as she turns to you and says nothing, because there is no need to say what is clear even to your mean understanding.
Even your stupid-smart brain gets it: there is no need to think, because everything will find its place without your help. All your striving is useless! You stand on the earth, so thin and fragile, and the Earth moves beneath you… and you don’t understand; you never will. You can never grasp the fact that you are whirling about the center of an entire galaxy at mind-numbing speed… but it doesn’t matter.
The simple fact of your existence is so fucking improbable that it’s ridiculous. That you go through life without having been killed even more so. That you fall in love with the only person who is made for you, only for you… well, need I say more? It’s so improbable that it is almost impossible, but not quite. It’s serendipity. It’s like laying your head in the guillotine and hearing it whistling down to get you, only to have it get stuck. And while the executioner is repairing it the revolution is called off, and you are pardoned. Not only that, but the pardon reaches you in time, and the executioner doesn’t decide he couldn’t care less, to kill you anyway, because after all, dammit, there must be order.
Why do we want this? Why do we yearn after a higher power, be it a God, or simple fate? Why don’t we humans want to take things in our own bloody hands? Why are we so weak? Because we are. We are weak, and we know it.
I stood on the mountaintop, laughing at the fools below, and a little man came up the path and asked me, what was I doing? I told him, it’s none of your bee’s wax, upon which he tugged my sleeve insistently, and told me I had an arrow that belonged to him… What is this arrow you speak of, you fat little man, I asked. There are no arrows here, only snow, and hard cold stone, of beauty unsurpassed, with the exception only of the warm beauty of my bride. Ah, he said, the very arrow I speak of is lodged in this woman, your bride. I’ve run out of arrows, there simply aren’t enough to go ’round. I need it back!
A terrible thought entered my mind: that if he got his arrow back I would lose my bride. My face went black with rage, and I struck the little man a blow, so hard that he stumbled, and fell from the mountaintop with a faint scream to the fools below. In that moment I knew that my bride was now after all lost to me, and that my days were cursed.
I descended among the fools, and I was as a fool, and I was no longer myself, and my bride saw me but did not know me, for I had killed the fat little man, and with him all love was let out of the world, with a vast, deep sigh. There were no more arrows, no more love. Nevermore. And I wept, fool that I was, and did not know why. I wept, and I woke up weeping.