The Complicated mass transition

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

Am I truly complicit? Was I ever?

The wind came whistling by. Another carotid artery. Another bus passed by.

--- And over the long stretch of time, villains became heroes, and heroes became pernicious, prying elements.

The bus. That damn bus. That damned bus driver. An anger quaked from within, but I subdued it before it sparked a flame. Now, up-tilting my head, I panned quickly with one eye, largely unnoticed.

"Incendiary elements lurked about and were high on alert."
"Remember." "Remember." "Remember the cause."

Voices switched from my own toward a presupposition of energy transitioning and always in flux.

"A digression?: intellect → intuition → synthetic a priori..."

"To, to ancient slime molds floating inertly in the depths of space, awaiting that divine reawakening?"

"Or maybe it was all the other way around?"

The bus squeaked as the city accountant demanded better service from "over-paid brake mechanics" (using the city council with kickbacks), then pocketed the rest.

I walked 20 superfluous paces behind an old lady moving far too slow. A wayward homeless person cut in line and gained entry as the bus driver peered away.

I was standing exactly where I should have been, in front of the line and super early—fifteen minutes early, in fact. As the first became last and the last were always forgotten.

--- Doomsdayers. People with abnormally large craniums. Men—men with staggering bulges. A silent authoritarian force that was persistent in its lie of value, leading into the Mussolini-driven violent suppression of the throngs of war.

The musicians, in character, played the beat as to keep from getting killed. Society surrounded the thespians, each singing their version of Kumbaya [which is often confused with cumbia, revealing the true funerary rites in peaceful transition].

As I finally stepped on the first step, I was in another place entirely. Sirens streaked by, and my headphones were intentionally all too expensive—to drown out and cancel the noise.

"Run!" The voice said in the back of my head, chirally echoing back through the chambers within.

"Was this grey mass here so stubborn? The [actual] Halls of Amenti?"

All that time and effort to blend in—then stand out. To survive... to survive!

The overarching collective theme had a voice, too. And they all spoke, sometimes all at once. Yet here they sat.

All these poor-ass ghetto people assuming a role just to survive. Were we surviving or subordinately playing into a trap? Staying caged under the auspices of being housed?

This peace I felt when contemplating, once again, to let it all go!

The voice spoke increasingly more often in undeniable conditions where it could not simply be dismissed away.

If we could just see it—that transition of time to where we are now—would we kill ourselves? Would we feel freely liberated to take the lives of others, then?

What if we're all truly demons, reignited through the madness of space dust?

What if space dust carries with it, in its carbon seal, death and only death ever?

What if life here, now, is so unspeakably evil that it is the sprouting of organelle—a growth from the supersaturation of death?

Super-death parasites.

I surely came to this conclusion, looking deep into the truth of these shared, rolling tin-can inhabitants.

As that bus rolled aimless down another corridor, meandering toward its destination—perhaps randomly named such-and-such Boulevard or Avenue, however wayward in the expanse of all.

Upon realizing this, the automated voice blurted out my destination—so clear on the lips and head as a token with my mind:

"555 First Street."

Realizing the importance would not be carried—nor important—throughout this falsified notion of transcendence in time.

"Run!" "Run!"

But did I ever listen?

Eventually, I knew it would be right.

As stocks grew and markets plummeted and sneaky, short-sighted paradigms prospered—something was always lost, never to be gained back.

The brainwash—that all humanity could be surmised as a brown little girl wearing a summer dress, picking universal daisies.

The grand illusion that the monster did not hide the longest within this embodiment of her.