Cynic's End
by Cynical Chaos
O holy night. Supposedly the greatest night in existence. For the religious it signifies the celebration of the their god and savior. For those more commercially minded, it's the center of the season of unrestrained shopping and money making. As the wise man said, "Vanities of vanity."A season where both the religious and the money makers and spenders all scurry about like ants on a dead dog. The churchies handing out their invitations and the spend thrifts eagerly searching for bargains. All for one week out of one month of the year. And for what? A bunch of tired, broken bodies. All broken either financially or mentally, and all tired of cheap jingles and bible pushing .
And once that month passes, it's time to get drunk and pass out just before midnight on the Eve of the New Year. And after the booze binge come the lovers with their sappy poems and kissy faces. After that is a day of ale and bagpipes accented with cheesy accents from men in red wigs and kilts. And so the calender turns from one month to the next and the whole of the solar system goes from one holiday induced high to the next and the black spots on this giant onion grow bigger and blacker and dig their blight in deeper and deeper and no one really cares about this farce of Dante's inferno, cause we're all drunk, okay?
And what's to be done to fix all this maniaty? The blind insist on seeing for themselves, the blind strain to hear silence, and everyone sees that folly as not just normal but as expected of the sightless deaf. So what's the fix? A bomb, a pill, a shot to the head? Or should everything just be covered up because it offends the delicate sensibilities of the people who started it all? The Collected Worlds of the Free and the Lands of the Independent Crackheads, and so long as the beer is flowing and the dope and heroin is free is all good, right?
Let's just cut all the black spots that offend our delicate sense of aesthetics and throw them in the trash. But there isn't a knife sharp enough in the whole of the galaxy that can gut and clean this rotting mess of still squirming fish cause the fish slip free and spread the disease ever deeper in a river polluted black and NOBODY CARES.
The United States of Apathy and the Collected Minds of the Sky Seekers By Way of Slave Rolled Weed Cigars.
And everything's cool.
Cool.
Right.
Screw it all.
Screw it all cause my life's mine and I'll be damned if I let anyone steer my life. Besides, beef's my thing, not fish or onions. Just give me my food, my ship and my girl, and I've got all the reason in the world to live on.
And a way out appears. A path to peace, a exit out of this nightmare. Or is this a dream?
"I'm the only one who can kill you and set you free."
"Heh. Bang."