Viva los Malditos

[Iron Sulfide]

[In a mood. Prepare to be ranted.]


             For some, the weight of the notion that we never really cross the abyss is crushing.
The jury is still out on my disposition. Here, we try to bob and weave around the mountainous
ridges and cavernous valleys at the edge of it all, but we find ouselves moving full circle, back
where we started. Welcome to the island of Daath. This place is nailed to the tree of life, just
above Tiphereth. In fact, this place is Life, itself; Life is Daath.

            Quicksand surrounds us. We stand on a plot of firm ground with no safe path which
leads us from where we are, to where we would like to be. The wait is excrutiating, and we
have witnessed the braver of us foolishly attempt to ford the quicks in vain. Scientists have
demonstrated that our cozy patch of calm and safety is also sinking in the sand, at a rate
directly proporational to the crushing of our hopes. So we stand in mourning for our own eulogy,
as panicked egos grasp for "Alternatives" to our "Predicament". This is sweet talk for "how to get
our asses unfucked."

            It seems that the only solutions they can contrive hinge on some sort of salvation by
someone or something from beyond the quicksand. Meanwhile, homemakers sweep their porches
off into the quick and tidy up a bit; no sense in dying with a dirty welcome mat. People continue
to trade each other scraps of paper that used to mean something. A growing number of people
have taken to the notion that ignoring our situation can make it go away, but even the most
oblivious of us knows what's happening. So we shuffle about , waiting for the unforgiving cesspool
of time to wash over us and deliver us to the other side. Not the other side of the sand marsh,
where one can just make out the edge of a serene, lush prairie. No, this other side doesn't offer
hope. It's not even a tangible place. It's just an end- no joy, no pain, no love or fear; just nothing.

            There is another solution. It isn't very popular. We could, if we so chose, dismantle the aging
structures we've built on this island. That might slow the sinking, some. We could also use the scraps
to build a bridge. The work will be tiring and the journey across the marsh will be dangerous, since we
only have ancient materials with which to work. Surely, many of us will choose to wade into the quicks,
or wait patiently to be engulfed on dry land, rather than live free or die scared. For some, too much has
been invested in this island to even contemplate it; for others, the green pasture seems like an illusion.
Somehow, though, I'm sure there will be enough of us to tear it down and leave this place.

Rats are the smartest thing on a sinking ship. Hand me that hammer, would you?

-Iron Sulfide,
Damned if I don't.

[Adios]

Those old buildings with the fresh coat of paint are guarded.