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I
am a technician of the new world order.
My
face is legion. I am soul-lost. My heart beats with the
cold, mechanical precision of a computer chip. I am digitized.
I see in stereo-vision and hear in surround-sound. Currency
is the lubrication for my joints and multi-media driven,
information overload, comprises the detritus of my mind.
I have no original thoughts. I am vapid and void of creativity.
My life has no redeeming social value or portentous, cosmic
meaning. Rather, I am an automaton. A scion of the future.
A creature of the new millennium.
I dream of violet and azure seas, capped by frothy, pirouetting
waves. The mirrored reflection of midnight skies - awash
with the sparkling flames of the great, white, Milky Way
- confound my vision, splashed across the dark formlessness
of the watery void. I dream of sands, brilliantly white,
and coconut-laden palm trees that rustle gently in the salt-tinged
breeze. My dreams mock my reality. My days are spent in
endless repetition. The fruit of my labor is redundant.
My skills and expertise are negotiable. Daily, I recreate
myself as a simulacrum of myself. My true state of being
is unknown. Illusion is my reality and reality my dream.
There
exist in this world others like me. Our work is endlessly
opposed to that of the archetypal Other, the eternal. The
dark, muddy formlessness of primal creation drives our hatred,
our lust, and our fear. We are charged with the implementation
of the future by the extrapolation of the present and the
obfuscation of the past. Now is my only reality. We toil
within small, gray cubicles; the maze-like cells of a vast,
tetragonal matrix. Each engaged in the same task, each working
towards the same goal.
Our
objective is the total annihilation of independent thought
and action. Our way is the way of the future; the way of
linear, time-driven progression. Only through technology
shall my personality be saved. Only through technology shall
I reach the utopia of my own creation. Only through technology
shall I behold the face of my God.
Blackness is everywhere that I look. Engulfing me, overwhelming
me. Oozing with psychic potentiality, within and without.
The ebony shades of darkness - drifting, haunting - of sleep.
Of dreamless slumber that threatens to consume the whiteness
of my consciousness, of illumination. Only by courting sleeplessness
shall I persevere. Only by denying my essential being shall
I achieve true knowledge of self. Only by denying my past
will I know my future. Only by embracing the material shall
I approximate the spiritual. Only by becoming the white
will I sublimate the black.
I am a technician of the new world order. My fear approximates
totality. Clammy sweat nourishes my body and the viscera-encrusted
talons of gibbonous madness tear at the essence of my being.
I am afraid of the creature I believe myself to be. I am
afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I am. I am
afraid of the creature my dreams tell me that I will become.
Within
my mind lurk phantasmagoric vistas of panoramic delight,
wonders to engage the senses and engorge the carnal appetite.
The pleasures of the flesh beckon me. Tender tragedy. Painful
ecstasy proffered with heartless abandon. Tempting, physical
delights exemplified by the myriad full, creamy thighs and
deep, moist caverns of lust filled by colonnades of primal
passion. Open pores, sweat blinded movement pinioned by
sighs and the sound of wet flesh slapping, sliding, fingers
groping, grasping, caressing, holding.
My need is all that is real. Infinite eyes, receding into
whiteness, lust-filled, heavy-lidded, somnolent and hypnotic.
They bat provocatively, possessing feather-like lashes stolen
from the carcass of a maggot-eaten bird of paradise that
tickle me shamelessly. I suckle upon the earth's nipple,
vast and bloated grotesquely with the blood of the unborn,
the milk of malignant narcissistic existence. The flesh
is everlasting, saturated with satiation and perverted compulsiveness.
Nothing outside of myself is real. All else is illusion.
Only my need is undeniable.
The world we create by our very existence reinforces the
unreality of true being. The paradox is inescapable. For
if my life has no meaning, then the meaning of all life
is in question. The cell within which my reality is bounded
is representative of the collective grid within which we,
the technicians of the new world order, lie fallow, awaiting
the fertilization of a spiritual seed. The futility of independent
or creative thought follows naturally from this original
conception.
My life is without intrinsic purpose or ultimate goal. Therefore,
identifying exterior purpose has become my goal. With that
realization, my purpose is clear. To obscure the purposefulness
of life from those who would seek and embrace it. To reinforce
the reality of my perceived surroundings in empathetic resonation
with the beat of my own soul-lost heart.
I am a technician of the new world order. My mask is that
of a clone. My soul is unknown. My heart beats to the vibration
of the world's soul, for it knows no beat of its own. I
see the world through dark and accusing eyes because my
own are colorless as bone. The dreams and aspirations of
the Other are the lubrication for my joints and their lives,
the stimulation of my mind. I have no being other than that
created to nourish my inner purposelessness. Rather, the
light of my whiteness is sustained by blackness. I am a
technician of the new world order.
Copyright
©1999 Mark Rockeymoore
A Geographic Information Systems (GIS) Analyst and Help-Desk
by day, rebel writer by night, Rockey is a husband and father
who enjoys reading, meditation, Tae-bo and the deconstruction
of meta-narratives, all for the purpose of completing the
cipher divine.
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