Arduous March
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Joined 04-13-17, id: 9077378, Profile Updated: 04-23-17

The Arduous March

북한기근

'I said 'Now look motherfucker now I'm looking for drugs
I'm not asking bout' Jesus, not askin' for hugs
Cause I'll fucking kill you, and everyone too
I don’t give a fuck about World War 2!' - Anton Newcombe

In a land far away, in a land where music is dead and there is no electricity and no television, there is a man who perpetually walks the murder mile. This long stretch of land where there is nothing but rust and decay, a rustbelt trek where there is all but love and god, both words of the old world, a world which has long since died. There is no future for this man but this long journey that is constantly grinding, constantly mocking him, constantly downtrodden and perpetually going. The lands of the old have long since died, the forests of Oregon have burned down, the factories of Michigan shut down, the distilleries of Tennessee only produce the blood that was once human. The roads of Chechnya bombed, the children of Korea starved, the old of Belfast have all capitulated, what future is this that has led humanity to nothing but a lonesome human being on this march that is 'life'? This man has not felt the pain of the Old World, the Old World in which insects eat the eyes of children inside out, in which gods reigned on a throne of cancer, plague, disease, and vitriol among a species of ape and these apes call themselves 'sentient' and constantly go to wars over black liquids in the sand, false beings in the sky and precious pieces of paper that constantly have them indebted to men older than themselves.

This man constantly walks this path yet doesn't know where it leads nor what the trail is even called, the only clue he was given was a billboard sign that he read, which had the symbols of a different language, too alien to himself...Those words read:

고난의 행군

우리가 취해야 할 길

From the townships of Johannesburg to the magnetic boundary of Akron, Ohio, to the industrial parks of Michigan to the ever-going burning oilfields of Kuwait, the feeling is mutual, there may be even more men like him or maybe he is the last, nothing is certain but the ground he walks upon and the clothes on his back and the thoughts in his mind. His march won't be broadcasted on the evening news, his march won't inspire a million people, he won't be a national hero, he won't get the key to the city, he won't love, he won't hate, he will not even have a proper burial, and when he dies his ghost will continue on the path, ever starving.

Swords to the ploughshed, guns to the grain, what has happened then will never be the same. The bloodied pools, the wretched cries of sons of lost, lost to die. The Ganges river bloodied with strife, from all walks of life ended with a single thrust of a knife. A cocked gun, a bottle of whisky and a sharp eye, the time for forgiving is gone, the time is set to die.