Foggy Dystopia

In a historical world

We have theatrical ways –

Every individual seems to have

A role, dictated by past stereotypes…

One is cast quite randomly –

You don’t get to choose between poor or wealthy –

All you can do is try to stomach

What card you’ve been dealt, at least in public.

So I wonder when people comfort me

How much of it is insincerity

And how much of it is an honest,

genuine friendship promise…

It’s hard to tell.

It’s like the whole world is a big poker game,

Where so many people cheat

That you begin to doubt your neighbors.

The worst is everyone has the same questions that go unanswered

The same misguided trust for the few hiding their chips

And if we could all agree to show our cards

We would be blessed with unwelcome knowledge –

For who wants to open their blind eyes

To truly see the unmasked faces of our supposéd allies?

It’s almost as if people prefer to see colorful masquerades

Instead of seeing the bare, scarce truth of the world.

They would rather live in a peaceful moquerie with their doubts of the honesty of others, busy holding up their own disguise,

Than unravel a world founded on the ashes of their dreams.

For when there’s smoke, there’s fire, or so the saying goes,

Yet we refuse to become our own firemen and extinguish the flames of a relentless, brazing lie, even when it consumes our children’s innocence…

Our fear of the scattered ashes of who we are is somehow greater than our fear of the very flames destroying that being, and so it spreads like wildfire, and we clutch on to the beautiful lies woven onto our hearts, while the reflection of dancing, festive flames come alive within our souls.

The fire engulfs our shadows, one’s most faithful follower, then proceeds to consume our soul, its most formidable rebel. Once this is done, it feasts on our conscience, until eventually, there isn’t much left behind the shell of our projections.

I look around and wonder who among my allies have been ravaged by lazy fumes

But all I can see are the ravenous smiles of murderously pampered façades.

I decide that if I cannot find other victims, I can at least try and save myself, and so I cough my way down the sewage of what should be my conscience and search, search for a person I wouldn’t know how to recognize.

And that’s when I wake up from a lugubrious nightmare, and by instinct look around, hunting for the glimpse of a shadow. In the lingering darkness of the night, I am unable to find the hint of the shadow I used to play with as a child. I would almost turn the light on – just to make sure – but it is late, and I must sleep. Besides, I can always look tomorrow…

“I am just an impulsive person who thinks to much”, I tell myself, and with that, I lay on my warm, sweaty mattress and sleepily close my eyes.