Apocalyptic Apologetics

        Every so often I can see the world as it truly is. This is not easy. It’s far easier to live in the world on its terms, or to succumb to the myth of a democratized truth that says everyone else must be right, that life is being lived exactly as it should be. However, every once in a while, the truth of our world becomes impossible to deny; most often I find this moment occurs at about quarter to two in the morning, when the bars begin to close and the paltry civilization we’ve built for ourselves begins to grind to a complete halt, leaving people like me with nothing left except for a few all night dinners, fast-food chains and, of course, Super Walmart.

          All further signs of life which dare to reach for anything more beyond this point must do so illegally, amid a handful of unlicensed after-hours clubs, all night drug dealers and a few lean prostitutes. This pale shadow of an underworld operates invisibly before a growing army of police officers, all hunting the night for anyone who dares to travel so far beyond the daily grind. Is this really life? Are we actually living like this on purpose?

          Of course it wasn’t always like this. At one time, there were massive bordellos that catered to every sensual pleasure life had to offer. There were magicians and acrobats shacked up in traveling circuses to which any of us could run; if not to them, then to the gypsies, or to the bandits who boldly haunted the hills where they trained to be more dangerous, to test their mettle, and ours as well. Secret societies still had secrets, not to mention a robust and active society in which these would be told, and people didn’t have a market on which to prostitute their strangest ideas as mere spectacles; they had to become them.

          No one knew, or could assume they knew, what everyone else thought about everything else, or how big it all really was, if you lined it up end to end. Today, of course, we all know better. Today, there’s no undiscovered people left out there to surprise us, and nothing new under the sun to surprise us with, or so we all seem to think.

          Last night someone asked me, if I’m so unhappy with the world, why don’t I just build something myself to help make it better? The unfortunate answer is that I have, more than once, but, when all is said and done, other people rarely ever show up to join in the fun, or else they don't stay for very long. Obviously I can free myself from the dull machine that demands that I work, consume, and stone myself into a more manageable state, where, occupied by unconsciousness, I might not notice the way things are; unfortunately, it appears that this machine is a far more comfortable place for other people than it is for me. I’ve met other revolutionaries with similar strange designs and we all seem to be of the same opinion: The spirits of men have been stolen, leaving coin slots where their hearts used to be.

          The only weapons I have left that are worth using are art and conspiracy; I rarely find anyone for which sex or violence are suitable, and even my words rarely find the right ears. I’ve built secret societies, hideaways, sacred spaces, and multiple mythologies to wear like costume jewelry and paper crowns, but something always seems to be missing; that something, if you don't mind me saying it, is you. You, who may have also come to that terrible moment of discontent, perhaps when you were very young, or at the edge of a night where the alcohol was too weak to subdue you, but, like so many others, have either grown old, sobered up, or simply chickened out. You, and so many others like you, are helping to build up the world that I’m trying endlessly to build over. Know that I will continue to build bigger, badder, ballsier things, every night, as I prowl the cracks of your world, looking for the breaking point, so be warned: My art is getting stranger everyday, and, someday, I promise, it will sniff you out wherever you may be hiding and devour you.

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