Preying for Reign

           I secretly fantasize that one day an army of something terrible, like dinosaurs, giant bugs, lizard men, werewolves, or even giant vampire squid, will finally emerge from somewhere deep underground, or that we’ll at long last be violently invaded by aliens, as Hollywood has promised us for years, or that zombies will rise from the dead, hungry for human flesh, or that really ANYTHING truly monstrous, aside from us, would and could still stalk the shadows of our completely conquered world. This is a rarely expressed sentiment, but, if you have even one remaining shred of your basic human masculinity left anywhere within you, then I’m willing to bet that somewhere, deep inside, you hunger for such nightmares as well.


           Why? Because, deep down, I know that at least some of you must also hate having absolutely no use for your canines, for your fists, for your constantly atrophying senses, wits, and muscles, and for those now awkward fight-or-flight parts of your nervous system, almost as much as I do. Why else do so many people cling so foolishly to the impotent promises of an ever impending terrorist attack or, on the other side of the political spectrum, our exciting fears of the tireless predations of an oppressive and inhumane establishment? The fat and feminine parts of us often wonders aloud how the world can be so terribly awful, but deep down, in our guts, we all know it will never really be bad enough to make us into the glorious heroes that we all secretly wish we could become.


          Whether you’re aware of it or not, there’s a very real part of the human condition that desperately needs such dark fantasies as these, these promises of ever impending and, most importantly, tangible, danger, to keep each one of us from bloating into some sort of soft-bottomed, semi-conscious, slug, without any wit, will, or wildness left inside it. There’s definitely a reason why men used to go to war but now we’re left with nothing but video games, as even our wars have become indistinguishable from such, not to mention undistinguished.


           Some of us can feel the inevitable slide of modern man into the queasy computer screen lit death of the human spirit far more acutely than others, and a few of us, such as myself, are mostly immune to the conventional and convenient myths that the rest of mankind seems to be using to stave of what may be the inescapable end of our primitive and now vanishing manhood. From soldiers to skinheads I can see the inhuman lie of “otherness,” of a truly alien and deserving foe, for what it really is; the desperate delusions of shrinking men who are either to stupid or just to cruel to honestly face the end of our once indispensable but now obsolete masculinity.


          I prize my intellect, but curse it for failing to find any other solutions that might replace the ones which it has rendered unworkable. I think I may linger here on the edge of childhood indefinitely, at least until I can find a graceful way to die. Until then I can only hope to find a war worth fighting against anyone other than myself, the lack of which may be the true cause of death for all modern men.


           The Game is over. We have both won and lost.


           In closing, I found a poem from last year which seems pertinent:


The War I need can be bloodless. Indeed,
any bloodshed could just spread the Darkness and lead
to the fall of my Soul, which might only impede
the Great Work on my Unified Being.


But I’ve seen, stark and lean, how the Gods, Kings, and Queens,
starved for lack of a scene to support them.
How the path of the Serene, although quiet and clean,
holds no Dragons to slay or to court them.


So I yearn for a War, let the old trumpets roar,
light the torches, we must march on something.
Cause at the end of each year one thing is painfully clear:
If I have nothing to fear, I am nothing.

 
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