The Big Show

 A Written Warning on a Subway Wall

WELCOME TO THE BIG SHOW.
Look out the window, if there’s still glass left in the frame. Watch the neon lights flicker over the rubble. CONSUME THE ABSURD. IGNORANCE IS TRUTH. It’s flashing in high-definition, a brilliant, glowing marquee for the final act of a species that traded its soul for a front-row seat to its own execution.
We sit here, warm mug in hand, watching the tectonic plates of human civilization grind themselves into dust. How utterly futile. How utterly insipid. How vaingloriously feeble it is to think that a handful of voices could ever stem this roaring tide of visceral corruption. The machine doesn’t just run; it devours. It’s an Orwellian fantasy brought into screaming, pixelated reality, where the masses don’t fight the chains they subscribe to them.
There is no glorious resistance. There is only a lethargic, collective shrug as the very planet that birthed us is systematically raped, hollowed out, and left to bleed under a poisoned sky. We aren’t even fighting for the scraps anymore; we’re just waiting in line at the Bureau of Meaninglessness to get our exit tickets punched. And for what? War has become the ultimate complementary blood sport, a lucrative, prime-time entertainment package engineered to turn the architects of misery fabulously wealthy beyond the dreams of a Midas largesse. It isn’t grand strategy. It isn’t geopolitical destiny. It is simple, raw, unadulterated avarice.
The darkest joke of all is our own vanity. We think we are leaving a legacy. We think our monuments, our digital footprints, our proud empires will stand as a testament to who we were. But the math is already written on the cosmic chalkboard, scored deep like fingernails raking across the dark. 42. The answer to everything, and the absolute sum of nothing.
When the curtain drops, the human species won’t leave a scar. We will simply fade away, vanishing without a trace, without a signature presence to prove we ever crawled out of the muck. The universe will blink, wipe its brow, and forget we ever occupied the room.
Fiction? Quite possibly not.
Consider this a written warning on a subway wall somewhere deep underground, scratched into the tiles where only the existentially labeled apostates ... the ones shunned for violating community standards of blind optimism even bother to look. Let the fools rush blindly headlong into their irrelevant standing. Outside is a much better place to sit, drink some coffee, and watch the shivering demise pass for entertainment.
Karma is a patient spectator. Thus endeth the screed.
                                             messianic paranushka
words of the profit -


😐
ancillary 
trois -

listen -

formal -

suit -

bronze -

visions of sugar plums were at one time ... a rather sick form of bait ... 😐



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