single sparks are spectral fires

15.03.45
Someone has scrawled in a clever amalgam a single word across the walls of my cell. Limned in red, it is a subtle blend of blood and greasepaint meant to long outlive its owner. 'Satyagraha', each letter writ carefully so as to be distinguishable against the melange of death and decay it was scribed upon.
There was a human here.
Satyagraha is a word that means resistance. I begin to wonder if some spark of the human condition of misery had not been instilled in me in those darker days, that I could not begin to see the glory the Virus had to offer me. Is this a disease of the psyches of humans bear, this stubborn refusal to see what is best for all ultimately? A peculiar condition, certainly.
All the more reason we should wipe them from the face of the Earth. What they cannot learn now, they will never learn in the future; let us end their suffering before such confusion and pain and stubborn insistence on what cannot be infects anyone else.


Contents of this document are © 2002 Kim Kondratieff.