Broken

A row of pills before you...

Only one is the truth...

The rest are placebos...

Which one do you take...?

After all that subsequently proceeds...

Are you happy with your choice?

Broken

Like a toy at a wood shop, I am broken. Torn apart. Shattered. Too close to the sun, life has melted my wings, tossed me into fierce maelstroms, beached me upon the bones of whales. Now, I am lost, in a desert without rain, in a forest without light, in a snowdrift without warmth. It is a terrible place, this place, this interminable inferno of madness and deceit, where despair is the weapon of crats (i.e. aristocrats, plutocrats, autocrats, technocrats, etc.) against nots (i.e. not aristrocrats, not plutocrats, not autocrats, not technocrats, etc.).

Of course, I am not a toy. I do not have wings. But I am a not. As for my name...

I am called many things. But you can call me Lucy; it's short for Lucifer. I also go by Seri; it's short for Serenity. But that's not all. There are names that sound like letters of the alphabet; there are names that sound like nonsense; there are names that sound made up... but one and all, they're all my names.

Of course, Lucifer and Serenity seem like some sort of sick joke, so my legal name is unremarkably normal and insipid. Like a hermit crab that carries its home on its back, the documents that delimit my existence name me: Meshell. As if that's not a fucking joke, too. But apparently me shells are clueless to the irony of a name synonymous with hollow lifeless vacuity.

Then again, maybe my name hides a destiny, a fate, that I inexorably work towards with unconscious drive.

How sad.

Though, I wonder: would my life be different, if I were named God?

Then again, though there are quite a few Jesuses in the world, there is no - Jesus - in the world, at this time, as far as I know, if you know what I mean.

Shrug. Maybe there's hope for me after all.

Then again, is there any hope for any not?

Let's see, as a not, the crats have decided that I am to have nothing. (Which, I don't feel too terribly singled out for, because most nots are entitled to nothing in this place.) What I am to have, is doled out so sparingly, so grudgingly, as to feel like drips from a tap with a faulty seal. (Which, again, is not something to feel woefully bitter over, because most nots are apathetic to the stingy miserly drip of largesse meted by the apex of the political, corporate, institutional, and technological systems of this place.)

But where my grievance burrows and festers, is in the constant stream of propaganda to make miserable the meager reality of nots. The incessant siren call to consume in sensory excess to assuage unstable feelings like loneliness and sadness, to partake in commitments to social unity, to adhere with relations by which to cement primary and binary bonds, etc. As well as the poundingly repetitive admonishment to be thankful, to be grateful for the satisfactions available to nots.

Nevermind the sheer poverty of such satisfactions, in light of the grandiose gluttony extolled by crats on ever more ludicrously immoderate channels of propaganda (which, not so coincidentally, are ever more financially reliant on crats whose agendas leave no doubt as to allegiances that scaffold, well, crats).

Of course, I'm a not. And as a not, I know my place.

Except for one teeny tiny burr, in the flawless diamond known as this place.

The political, corporate, institutional, and technological systems of this place would fall apart, if everyone took the Pill of Truth. Every aristocrat, every plutocrat, every autocrat, every technocrat, every crat resting on laurels in mansions aplenty, every crat hiding in plain sight at neighborhood coffee shops, every crat aboard private jets criss crossing the globe, every crat before lecterns and swaths of sycophants, would lose everything, if everyone took the Pill of Truth.

So you see?

Why it rankles so deeply to be a not whose life has been mercilessly circumscribed (and relentlessly exploited) by crats who owe so much - some - everything - to nots like me?

If...

A row of pills lay before you...

Only one is the Pill of Truth...

While the rest are placebos...

Which one do you take...?

As for me...

I don't need the pill.

The pill is me.

Note (I)

The Panama Papers: Politicians, Criminals, and the Rogue Industry That Hides Their Cash, Giant Leak of Offshore Financial Records Exposes Global Array of Crime and Corruption (millions of documents show heads of state, criminals and celebrities using secret hideaways in tax havens) by The International Consortium of Investigative Journalists (April 3, 2016)

Who pays the price for cash hidden by millionaire and billionaire crats? Nots.

Meanwhile... other epochs of unbridled avarice include, but are not by any stretch of the imagination, limited to...

prior to the fall of the Roman Empire (@ Wiki)

prior to the French Revolution (@ Wiki)

the Roaring Twenties (@ Wiki)... prior to the Great Depression (@ Wiki)

Note (II)

Lest confusion confound ~

Lucifer (comprehensive definition @ Dictionary.com)

Serenity (comprehensive definition @ Dictionary.com)