The following article was published in N-SPHERE September 2010 issue.


I want to tell you about the winter of the walls they built in years and years of shared distance and rejection.

Relentless tiny drops of poison knocked at their door with silent piercing sound, the means to a brutal end. One carried false sorrow and regret, and an egocentric sense or reality (or whatever was left of it, both the sense and the reality), the other meaningless and mean rebellion against a fraud authority of a demilitarized dementia. And “the games” go on each day, and the walls grow stronger and break within themselves, until there will be no one left to fight or rebel against. Each of them secluded and “safely” tucked away in their mockery of fortresses, they go on burning every bridge, insanely justifying it with the tardiness of everything that might bring the senseless chaos to a halt. And as the slaughter unfolds yet another spectacular act, the poor watcher, collateral mandatory victim, knowingly and perhaps with futile energy and intent steps between the monstrous and toxic warmongers “blessed” with endless resources of psychotic attitude and of fabricating enormous amounts of refined and top quality, exquisite guilt.

And so, by the rules of combat and those of “the games”, a new sacrificial lamb takes up the challenge, w.m.d.–s in his back pocket, casual weaponry for everyday use at absurd picnics and mute howling choirs singing odes to King Nonsense.

“Hail Master. Let it be bestowed upon me thy grace and madness, so I may be allowed to do thy bidding. As anxious as I may be, I pledge that I will not fail those who joined the nothingness before me.”

by Bahak B

artwork by Vel Thora

Full article here.