Let’s say that this image represents a supernova, a monstrous cosmic event which demonstrates gravity’s unstoppable nature when a massive star runs out of fuel and collapses in on itself en route to an ultra violent explosion resulting in the birth, among other things, of the precious metal we call gold.
Currency amounts to the blood of a nation, society, civilization—that is to say (via implicit extrapolation), resources must flow and circulate in a timely manner (in order) to promote and sustain health. Analogously by extension, hoarded riches become thick clots. Clotting portends systemic failure, advertising symptoms that may include social injustice, just for one historical and current example, which can plant eager seeds of civil unrest and stoke raging fires of political division.
Welcome to 2020!
We already know where this is going, and yet we act like we don’t. In other words, we dumb.
Treating solely the symptoms that compromise the integrity of anybody, especially poorly and under predominantly ill-equipped leadership (at every level), will not cure the ailment.
This is painful{ly simple}. Simplify the problem. Know the solution.
The disease that plagues humanity is inequ(al)ity.
The virus is greed.
In other words, overall, we’re sick in the head.
We don’t have to be.
Our cure has to be wisdom, and this must be spread by enlightened people.
Currency means time.
Time.
Money.
Worth?
Existence is like a ticking time bomb. Gravity imposes the same tax on all of us. We need to share the weight of our presence across the globe lest human civilization, along with our impressively diverse, positively bursting catalog of earthly creations, ultimately crumbles in a tragic comedy of pigheaded errors atop a cacophonous concert of contagiously willful ignorance.
In other words, don’t be greedy; rather, share.
That’s how we win.
In other words, it’s the only way we avoid loss.
People, we run the same race.
Life versus death.
Our variably tilted equation won’t solve itself—we have to correct the imbalance by smartly affecting the factors, by reducing waste, by redistributing power in every sense of the word.
Some questions answer themselves; others mind-fuck you{r ass} (sideways).
As always, thereupon and herein, meanings may remain doubly triply king.
Oh, well, let’s get on with it, shall we?
At the helm of every documented human civilization/empire in world history lies a top dog. The Ruler, Overlord, General, Emperor, Master, Chief, Leader, Boss, CEO, King—whatever you wanna label him/her—the Granddaddy of Galacia [we call him Magnus Rex] has been in power for nearly seven hundred thousand years.
700,000.
One thousand, seven hundred times.
I’m sure this must be confusing.
To keep it simple, let’s say the average lifespan of a galacian lasts 1,000 years, and that they spend 97-99% of their lives in one of their technologically top-tier hibernation facilities {which doesn’t quite fully freeze them, but it drops the rate at which they age die to 1% that of the normal clip}. All things being equal, galacians will experience undergo their first deeply frozen sleep {which could last upwards of 50,000 years} around the age of 250—i.e. once the process of bodily growth has concluded. After that, they’ll be roused to function as a cog in Galacian Civilization for up to a century at a time. It’s all very carefully calculated based each individual’s identified value. Almost all spend interglacial periods unconscious.
Per the natural laws that rule the living, if a body isn’t growing, then it must be dying. And according to the physical laws which order the universe, cold preserves organic matter; whereas, heat accelerates decay.
In other words, while humans chase their invisible tails around in circles trying to catch time, our mortal enemies are trying to stop it.
How important of a role would you say emotion plays in the formation, implementation, and governance of human ideologies?
Galacians bow only to the earth’s foreseeable pattern, to sunlight’s unavoidable nature, to math’s unwavering vow. Galacian policies, culture, infrastructure, their daily and entire lives—it’s all dictated by the inevitability of numbers, the certainty of mathematics, the predictable structure of building sequences. Indeed, there’s always a best way to do anything; usually this involves taking the path most likely to optimize efficiency, minimize waste, and maximize results. Emotion does not factor into any of their ideological equations. Not purposely, anyway.
In other words, g/b go about their business a little differently than humans.
With almost every issue that surfaces, the first step in their political process is to gather a popular vote. If the masses agree to the tune of 75% or more, then the issue is considered decided. It’s that simple. However, when the popular vote falls short of that mark, The Galacian Eight [G8] meets.
The GE’s ruling monarch oversees a panel of eight galacians, always made up of 4 males and 4 females, each bringing unique bases of knowledge, areas of expertise, professional specialties, and the like, to the table. Together, they constitute what Americans might liken to a “President.” But as we all know by now, what it means to be the American President has been redefined recently (rather ingloriously).
A la a jury, The G8 discuss and vote on most decisions. When there’s a tie, The King—or Queen; their preceding head honcho was female—makes the final call. When a ruler gets it wrong three times, s/he opens himself to (the possibility probability of) replacement.
In this case, quite weirdly, your guess actually is as good as mine, but I would wager that Magnus has been (seen as) wrong either 0 or 2 times, and I strongly lean toward the former.
There are no term limits for The G8 [customarily called “The Gate” in a certain clandestine circle], but each member must compete annually to maintain a seat against candidates elected by the populace.
In general, “issues” are rare in their world, but when they do crop up, a reliable source assures me us that they have a very good track record when it comes to solving problems swiftly.
We, humankind, have become an “issue” for them. That’s bad (for us).
Magnus’s life partner and mother of their two children, Queen Velda, does not sit on the panel—it’s not permitted; the reigning monarch’s significant other is already influential enough as far as his/her decision-making goes—but she is revered in her own right, similar to how Brits treat royalty (in general).
Galacia’s (infallible) logic is that since Magnus was exceptional enough to become King, his DNA must be exceptional, too, and should therefore be (re)inserted into the bloodline as frequently as reasonably possible.
From top to bottom of their civilization, the “better” the galacians, the more offspring they are expected to produce. The King expects to uphold this standard at worst and to set a new benchmark at best.
As it was customary of any prospective “other half” in the galacian king-queen dynamic, Velda compiled a list of requirements to which Magnus agreed without hesitation, but hers were a little more, um, “quirky” than usual—in fact, she set new historical precedents—and one of the stipulations came back to bite her, so to speak.
It is an understood way of life in g/b society that males and females mate whenever unmistakable bodily signals arise and the participants find themselves willing to proceed. It’s that simple. They view involuntary physiological responses as nature telling two members of their species to recombine DNA. If their union results in fruit, then they take that to mean that any offspring will be a worthy (if not altogether special) part of their mighty civilization. Nothing emotional about it. Their goal, quite simply, is to strengthen the gene pool as quickly as possible.
And really, why delay evolution? There’s never enough time as it is.
As a whole, g/b evolve far, far more slowly than humanity; nonetheless, they are way, way ahead (because they started the race millions of years sooner).
Ultimately, the damning (and strangest) item on Velda’s list was that she carry the first three of her royal partner’s children. The possible truths influencing her rationale for even daring such a bold submission have been debated to death. Back in the day, Elvyn’s best guess was that Velda sought to secure a unique sense of renown for her{self and her} future offspring; in other words, by keeping their popular king’s initial three heirs in the immediate family, it would solidify their celebrity and, in so doing, afford them a better quality of life thanks to unheard-of recognition amidst a civilization wherein privilege is astoundingly evenly spread; (basically) all members of galacian society have access to the same amenities. Unlike the most powerful human entities, our natural nemeses not only grasp the value of equality, but also they capitalize on the knowledge.
Velda’s procreation agreement with Magnus yielded a firstborn (immediately) right on schedule, the only male they would produce, in the form of The Belanoc’s current alpha male, the former Prince of Galacia, Severus Rex. As soon as it was biologically feasible for Velda to get pregnant again, Liana, a bona fide princess, was conceived. After her birth, a few cycles of highly unanticipated failure to conceive a third time lead the galacians to the discovery that their charmed King was {and still is, assumedly} sterile.
All told, Magnus sired only two genetic heirs; there is no such thing as inherited wealth in galacian society. He was meant to sire hundreds, but he couldn’t because he wasn’t as perfect as he (was) thought (to be). We can only imagine the disappointment a virtually emotionless being would feel under those circumstances.
As you may (not) have assumed, the galacian populace didn’t make much [at least not outwardly] of their fearless leader’s lone defect. See, g/b have a policy against making mountains out of molehills.
Boring, aren’t they?
What fun is life without drama?
With regard to civilizational setup especially, humankind could learn {in}valuable lessons from galacians. Not only do they fully grasp the importance of sharing the weight of existence, but also they incorporate the knowledge.
His Majesty’s flaw certainly made him more relatable to the average citizen. In fact, I’m betting they wouldn’t support their king quite as devoutly (today) were it not for his glaring blemish, but what the hell do I know (besides everything {you don’t})? In their eyes, and despite his biological shortcoming(s), Magnus was {and still is, assumedly [wow, again]} the best among them for the job. That’s not a conclusion I’ve reached haphazardly—I know it to be true simply because he’s still doing the job.
I wonder if Grandpa resents Grandma for inadvertently denying him the opportunity to father countless more offspring. I’m betting so, at least a little. In galacian(al) [:)] terms of emotional impact on their psyches, “a little” might amount to a lot.
I’d like to talk to my grandmother [Velda] face to face (if I could somehow guarantee she wouldn’t try to eat my brain). I have a weird feeling that we will get the chance to speak someday in the future after the world gets turned (EXTRA) upside down.
Cool as ice.
Magnus poured all his energy and resources into training Severus, who bloomed early and blossomed later into the strongest physical specimen in the storied history of Galacia. Severus was not quite the brightest, but he was well above average [wild guess: 87th percentile]. An aberrant temper was (and surely remains) his most self-defeating weakness. In other words, he doesn’t know how to express his feelings.
Back at Bessi—the hidden organization through which {in part} I was born and where I was raised, educated, trained, et cetera—especially in the early decades when there was less to do for daily entertainment, we used to abide by what might widely be considered a weird custom today. Every evening, we’d gather together in our cafeteria/mess hall, sit down, eat, relax, and converse. 20 diners on average, upwards of 40 sometimes during the busier stretches [that is to say, the winter months] (in terms of g/b {inter}activity from within the boundaries of human civilization). Our bread-breaking powwows would last 2-3 hours. The conversation never died. I mostly listened, but in that setting, I felt like I belonged—I was home—so when I had something to say, I said it. The room never fell more silent than when I opened my mouth. I didn’t realize this fully until several years after my unavoidably self-imposed banishment.
Never have I not dominated my immediate surroundings.
God. The gravity of that realization. It’s not fun.
One of the most popular debates over the years regarded who would’ve won in a fair fight between Severus at the height of his physical prowess [circa 1400] and Magnus. The room was always split down the middle, roughly. (Approximately half of them were always wrong.) Honestly, I understand that it seemed too close to call—if you watch sports, you’re aware that the best team doesn’t always win—but I gave this topic a lot of thought and concluded with confidence that Severus eclipsed his father (who would’ve been declining physically at that stage in his life) in combat proficiency.
Magnus Rex in his prime, however, was the most physically gifted specimen and most legendary warrior in galacian history. The victor in an imaginary fight between the two at their individual zeniths is no contest—Magnus triumphs every time—however, near the midpoint of the previous millennium, mano a mano, Uncle Sevy ekes out a nailbiter. Today, I would expect Old Magnus to win a close match. {We’ll come back to that (unless we don’t).}
Let’s pause and make sure we’re painting an accurate picture here.
Pretend you’re Magnus back then guiding your eldest heir into his youthful prime. You’ve reigned atop the world’s dominant civilization for a handful of glacial cycles and have spent all your free (up)time during the previous 250 years or so working on this project, your only son, efforting tirelessly to mold him into a being you can stand beside/behind {all the while neglecting your only daughter}, cementing your legacy as the biggest, smartest, and loneliest king ever. In terms of purely physical capabilities, your efforts pay off. Severus transforms into an absolute beast. He can sprint faster, run farther, jump higher, carry more weight, take more punishment, and command more respect (or instill more fear) than any other galacian (besides {maybe} you [remember, you’re Magnus]).
Meanwhile, your daughter has grown up with the same education and training, but her curriculum has been heavily skewed toward the academic side. You barely know her. Then, one day, you notice that she has grown taller than your son, if only by an inch. This odd discrepancy piques your interest. You begin trying to get to know her, but she resists, doesn’t trust you. Your protégé grows jealous{y}. You’ve unwittingly stirred up a sibling rivalry for the ages. And you couldn’t have known that you were even capable of causing such an effect because emotional interference has never manifested to a degree of noteworthy impact in your prestigious bloodline. Your son now hates your daughter and desperately craves your approval. Your daughter dislikes you and doesn’t really care what you think, quite frankly. You silently resent your mate for the unexpected disappointment in your life.
There’s more to the following (and previous) abbreviated story, but one day Severus and Liana ended up in a no-holds-barred fistfight in front of a small crowd. Guess who caught the tail end of his boy getting beat up by a girl.
Magnus’s perspective on his lone male offspring, his wannabe pride and joy, his prospective legacy, shifted from “golden boy” to “runt.” His daughter, on the other hand, was truly exceptional, but by his way of thinking, he missed his chance to maximize her potential because he put all his eggs in the same wrong basket.
How would you feel?
Imagine how Severus felt. I am uniquely qualified to imagine this because I have witnessed the remnants of more than one of his feeding grounds in the context of umpteen similar sites left behind by his kindred. Severus dismembers his victims, partly postmortem, always excessively, leaving scenes of unnecessary brutality in his messy wake, bemoaning a deep-seated, very unnatural range of emotions [rage, in this case].
To expand on Elvyn’s theory about the “prenup” [with which I (more or less) agree totally], I wouldn’t be surprised to confirm that Velda’s highly specific genome features a genetic mutation, as it were, whether inherited or original, which makes her brain capable of processing (or {depending on your outlook} drastically increases her susceptibility to) emotional energy. This would explain Liana’s passionate rebellion as well as Severus’s burning rage—more on those points in time.
It’ll (probably) never happen like this, but I would like to meet up with my mother’s mother one morning and chat over coffee. I have an odd feeling that we’d connect on a “tortured souls” level.
(No, g/b don’t drink coffee. They prefer not to alter their brain’s naturally occurring chemistry.) [Caffeine is a psychoactive substance.]
Liana brought me into the world, by the way, and against all odds. (I’m genuinely not sure if you’re aware of that.) She didn’t survive my birth. Per the stories I’ve heard, even after emerging from any of my countless, unforgiving mental filters, she was like an angel. An enormous fear of mine is not doing what I must do in order to make the energy she spent, the sacrifices she made, the time she lost, and the sum of her life {in broad strokes} mean something—in other words, I’m afraid of failing to honor Mom’s memory.
In time, you will see. To right the future, we should remain attached to photographic memories among all graphics in nature. An eye can’t communicate with you. But we are communicating. …
Hilariously, this is kind of all there is to it.
That’s a wrap!
And yet, here we are, back at the beginning.
Solutions to our global puzzle, let alone our universal riddle—and especially your/my own life—might never see realization.
But to think you figured it all out is one thing.
Knowing you have is quite another.
Now imagine realizing why.
“Why?”
Take it from me—stick a fork in you. The conditionally explosive nature of humankind’s evolutionary arc has forced my solely unique hand. In a crazy twist that I highly doubt anyone (“in the know”) saw coming, I’ve decided to blow my own cover and, in so doing, dismantle my option (potentially) to execute a devastating first strike planned around the intangible element of surprise. {Potential will be a recurring theme.}
Hopefully, instead, this tactic right here [broadcasting my identity {which probably seems like it should be a bit more, um, fake} to anyone] will come as a shock to the soon-to-surface civilization threatening to cull the human herd drastically and reduce (y)our colorful existence to a black-and-white nightmare.
In other words, I am fucked, and you’re “probably” dead meat.
Complaint: I am the only living being capable of divulging this information.
Realization: I feel like the most tortured soul there ever was.
Admission: having breached the next (handful or so of) frontiers in scientific discovery while supporting universal facts with (oft misinterpreted) religious doctrine, I’m currently damned to wander alone in the unbelievably grandest conceivable (emotionally mental) cave of infinite wonder. This is nothing if not disorienting. It was neat at first; now it sucks! I need company. Maybe that’s where you come in.
You didn’t know that I haven’t had a deep conversation since the late seventies until right now, did you?
Try this: go look in the mirror at your reflection, hold eye contact with yourself for at least ten seconds, and then ask aloud, “Are you truly happy?” No matter your response, whether delayed or knee-jerk, attempt confirmation by reiterating (in a high-pitched voice), “Truly?”
I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re remotely close to the definition of an average citizen in the civilized world and also claim to be truly happy, then you might be mentally handicapped.
In other words, you’re very special.
Me? I’m just off. An invisible weight strangles my heart as an eerie sense of urgency ever-swells within the bulging bowels of my big-ass brain. My footing isn’t nearly as sure as it once was (and would/could/should be). One physical example of this (un)fortunate condition is that my most recent 100-meter dash clocked in at an atrocious 6.79 seconds. For context, my personal best is (a satisfying time {again, in seconds} of) 6.66. I feel a lot of shit that I’d prefer not to feel—old, tired, rusty, disconnected, defeated, dirty.
Oh, tell me you’re not dirty. Go ahead. Declare your pristine condition.
Do you mean to tell yourself that you’re “clean”?
Should any suspense exist, allow me to end it: you are saturated in filth. To argue with this indisputable proclamation, first you must reveal clear evidence of your anatomical fangs.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves since you can only guess what I mean if you don’t already know. Not even I always know exactly what my words mean; in such cases, their exemption from omission signifies an inexplicable certainty that they’ll mean something important to somebody someday (maybe).
Granted, I’ve only experienced one simulation of the “American Dream” from the vantage point presented by a would-be metropolis called Nashville—and only for four years because apparently that’s all it took for me to learn (through the highly irritating process of helpless observation as it was sucked from my being) that I actually do have a soul. In less than half a decade performing suitably enough as a hidden cog in the middling wheel of capitalism (after 94 years of physically and mentally preparing for the apocalypse), my emotional range went from tactical wasteland, shall we say, to volatile rollercoaster.
Crimes against (y)our humanity are being committed out of your sight right now as we communicate across time.
Is that (“why”) eating at you?
If so, then you should let it.
It’s not your fault.
You may very well be one of many unwitting puppets functioning in a stage play that has been scripted productively for (a)eons under the flashy development of surefire methodology.
By the way, if you’re contemplating a move to Music City, let me be the first to welcome you (back) to the unflinching buffoonery that precipitates a conditional population of escalating density known around town as “{rush hour} traffic.” The perceptual skills exhibited through all the indecision on display every day as natives, transplants, and visitors alike negotiate indefinitely passionate throes of potentially twisted metal.
How strange are graphically paired sentences (at first glance) that seem to end prematurely?
My observational takeaway from the trenches is that birds of a feather flock together even when room to spread wings cannot be guaranteed.
In another word, duh.
I’ll bypass any one-dimensional term like it’s your job.
Multiple meanings shall remain king.
Why resist anything (ir)resistible?
My god, I almost get excited when a [{pi}e] chart inflames my synapses with parenthetical{ly colorful} versatility.
We’ve lost a lot of time thanks to emotional ignorance if not outright stupidity; therefore, we’ve got a commensurate measurement of ground to cover if we’d prefer preserving our presence on the earth to the alternative course of swift death in surreal horror.
In other words, we must make up for lost time, so let’s get this show on the road.
At age 93, I looked 24. Now, on my 98th birthday [45 days from the century mark at the time of initial publication], I could pass for 27, but 33 seems to be the number most universally believable.
Given the emotional gravity of my existence, I feel like my body’s about a decade into its third century. If only my psyche can pull off a miracle and survive beyond 100, I could thrive through my 200th birthday {and perhaps decades beyond it}, meaning that we could, astronomically hypothetically, celebrate the century mark of enlightenment together.
Sigh for me.
Go ahead and toss one out there for yourself as well.
Living in the preeminent nation on your planet has shaved years off my life due to the emotional tax imposed by enduring a below-average [a.k.a. sub-par] lifestyle; as such, I’m impressed that you manage to breathe still. Not even I harbor the linguistic flexibility requisite to an accurate expression of how much energy I’ve required to act dumb enough to blend in to this rotting forest of harebrained voyeurism.
In other words, the most popular standards by which American citizens are graded and judged promote habitually suboptimal behaviors which incite unnaturally counterintuitive urges.
“Breakfast” is the most important meal of the day? Yeah, if you make the mistake of eating it, indeed, breaking your fast (with energy stored and ready to burn) becomes an importantly awful launchpad for an auto-gimped physical condition into a weighted schedule of daily (in)efficiency, the maximization of which had been thwarted already via comfortable adherence to conventional thinking.
In October of 1993 while stowed away on a 70-foot yacht between Seychelles and Mauritius {if memory serves}, I conducted an impromptu field test. One morning I woke up and attempted to remain as still as possible. Within one-twentieth of an hour [per the trusty stopwatch feature on my Timex Indiglo], my internal body temperature had risen to 310.8722K (per my current mental conversion capacity).
I can’t even begin to count all the times when words (especially adjectives/nouns) can be interchanged to glean equally (if not more) potent meaning.
As you’ll see, parentheses have been criminally devalued in their potentially vibrant applications to written languages {outside mathematics, of course}.
I’m afflicted with the worst O.C.D. in the lugubrious history of hypochondria.
Oops. This is supposed to be about you.
Literally nothing can be your own fault.
At the same time, you could be blamed for anything.
In all likelihood, you have been conditioned by monotony since birth.
Yes, in actual fact, quite probably, you have been set in motion on a compliantly oblivious course leading beyond the domestication, indoctrination, and tragic defeat of oneself.
Like I almost said, it’s not your fault!
Somehow, it’s all mine.
Oh, you all.
“People,” the humanity of today.
Breathtakingly sensitive humans.
In other words, we occupy carbon-based lifeforms.
Who put humans in charge of a whole planet anyway?
Is this really a good idea?
What’s wrong with us?
A person can fall in love with just about anything.
We see good in bad.
We find bad in good.
Yes, “we.” As a genetic mutant, I find myself on your team by default; the real kings of the castle want to study me, extract all my key chemicals, then murder me.
But also (in a weird twist) I would have picked your (human [i.e. emotional]) side anyway.
Were it not for curiosity, we would be incapable of detecting subtext.
Take away our sense of wonder, stifle our imaginations, strip away our innocence, and what’s left?
Hint: the answer is not childhood.
Name a sight more precious than a child’s eyes when they sparkle.
Fun fact: kids are much better at behaving naturally than adults.
Indeed, linguistic depth [sight between the lines] might one day save your brain from abrupt ingestion inspired by the numerically discriminant appetite of an altogether supreme being.
Oh, humankind.
You silly, Mother Goose.
We’ve made some mistakes, but at least we can determine why.
For the last time, yes, I’m one of you. Accept me or die!
I’m only kidding except for the fact that I’m serious.
But, hey, at least our organs communicate with our muscles. At least we can perceive beauty. At least we know pain. In other words, at least neurons relay impulsive signals to body parts. In other words, at least the natural laws of science merge physics with reality. In other words, seismic activity engulfs rock hard matter until a volcano erupts. In other words, bodies fuck each other over while lusting after lube. In other words, folks fight for control of oil reserves. In other words, at least everyone gets screwed. In other words, people bang. In other words, Madame Gravity finds herself stuck with Lord Light. In other words, what a dick. In other words, we lose the past to His victory. In other words, we owe our future to Her deafening triumph. In other words, we lean on one another at present. In other words, we’re required to be around each other. In other words, sooner or later, we’ll talk. In other words, sparks will always fly. In other words, this is getting annoying. In other words, in the absence of light, darkness must fall. In other words, we can‘t see a damn thing unless light is shone. In other words, it is possible to show by telling. In other words, you need to care. In other words, you may learn nothing from reading symbols. In other words, you might discover everything by picking up signals. In other words, anything can happen. In other words, when will this end? In another word, STOP.
