The 7th of December

[Sepia]

To live is to war with trolls. - - Henrik Ibsen

The problem with the war was that we always waged it against the trolls. There is no victory against them, there is nothing that we can do to end it for the trolls of our world were the niggers of the last sun's world and any minority at all today. We've fought them all, well over the centuries, the bavarians, the barbarians, the yellow, the brown and the lazy, we've waged our wars with them and inside we have discovered their humanity, we've found them to be like us no matter what they look like so we've taken pity on them, we left the gramophone to forever tell them the master's voice.

We rattle the young in the morning, fake fire drills and icy water on the tundra, making them skittish and paranoid but more afraid of us than the trolls that lurk on the outside and as we supply them with the initial fear, they keep afraid by themselves, passing stories that saturn is alive and well, eating his children out behind the frozen horizon we can't ever see. Charon holds his oar silently, listening to us in our camps knowing that most will have what it takes to be carried. We can feel his gaze but we do not know what it is, we can feel something watching, we can experience it but as in a scene from carrie we don't know what happens when we bleed. We sit in our camps, awaiting the forgetful slumber, sharing stories and we remember a movie where they put pennies on their eyes. It is a wrong feeling, an uncorrected feeling as if the act itself is sacriledge. There is a sensation of deja vu, something we feel is simply unlived memories and we feel cold metal in our mouths, twice.

Sometimes we are remembered by the real world as we wait and fortify. They send seasonal food and drink, occasionally they send a bus with women and in the real world, that which governs our collective hallucination we would never have glanced on them but here, where everything is black and white and hard, we are the incorruptible filth. Drowned so far and so sudden that we are beneath any mans foot or heel but we give our apologies to none for we have seen part of a system that works like an old fraternite and even on the night of madame guillotine it spewed no lies, it was honest to us as we saw our symbols and ideas crumble, we became honest without caring. We'd seen the void rockstars used to revere as an ancient god, now a style, hollowed out husk residing in qlippoth.

Every day feels like a grim dark past, a story already been written about us and our jails. A cautionary tale perhaps. A cautionary tale none of us know how to interpret so we build novels, movies and plays on it. Every good story we ever experience was written in the bible, every good story is the visualization of dyatlov.