A Civilian Theory in Dystopia.

A child wakes up, and hears a voice… “T minus 8325 days, you must save it.” Not having a clue what it means, he ignores it, and every day, at the same time, Qin hears the same voice;

T minus 8324
T minus 8323
T minus 8200

“You must Save it!”

Save what????!!! Just tell me as someone grabs his arm, “its ok Qin, its just a bad dream” says his mother wearily. The voice continues, every day, at the same time, the same voice.

Now a teenager theres no more ignoring it, and its time to encounter. Remembering he first heard that number 8325, on his sixth birthday, the 6th of June. The devil may care. He burns his little finger with an ambering feather, just as The Book of Confrontations says…The unbearable pain from the weakest bodily extremity is a sharp reminder of the futility of existence. There’s nothing worth saving here anyway Qin whispers, theres nothing worth saving as a tide of death, darkness and decay overcomes him. Sleep.

As it overcomes you, it blisters, through your veins, murder. You can smell it like fear. And fear it like a rain drop in a cyclone.

What a stupid voice. Theres nothing worth saving.
It’s all dim-witted. Gone thinks Qin.
Like a freefalling rock, its splashes, the ripples are felt throughout. Only this time it’s not a pond. The pain mystifies, converging with the dark.

Why me, why my head he thinks?
Theres nothing worth saving.
its all dim-witted.

The book of confrontations states thus, "When the voice stops, it will never return. Although to do so you must adhere to the message.

“You must, you must, save it. T 739…”

Even thats wrong, somethings wrong. crazed.

It came like a freight train, steady, aggressive and unremitting. It went like a freight train too. Like a twenty second newsflash of ones life in entirety. The other headlines where as awfully shocking. Today, scientists continue drilling for rich minerals in the sub Antarctic. The bureaucrats save history from the jaws of swine againMass suicide. The Book of Confrontations kills more swine And on it goes. The book scares the crats.

Its the final frontier for independent civilian thought. However independence is a phalangic pain, reaching out to grasp individual knowledge and contemplation. Deliberance from evil. Then a smack from a led ruler, as the bureau comes down. The Equip Unit know. They knew when you were about to take. At the edge of eventuality, they know! They are more fearful the fear itself.

They know!

The shakes are erratic. The life of a civilian is a round cornucopia of disgust with constant pressure. Like a snow dome.

The tearful intrepidness which surrounds every heading of every newspaper, every title of every movie and every word from every bureaucrat is becoming of such a seamless mould. It seems so obvious, to beat the system destroy it, ignore it. But its not that simple as Qin discovered.

To beat the system you have to actually be the system. To break the rules entails acknowledging an appreciation for the rules very existence. So how do you save humankind from disease when its humankind that is the disease? The head which poisons the rest has done its poisoning. The drones have followed after every plane crash, after every war, after every bomb pick pick picking at the scab. The spiteful invertebrate of insignificant waste.

Opening your eyes to a mass hemorrhage of white light, your head stutters awkwardly, to the rhythm of a march in a thorny count. One minute out of time, one minute in. But somehow the repetition is consistent.

It came so quickly and went so fast.
An elegant beauty refracted through broken glass.
Its orange hazy heavens, inconsistent tides.
When stripped from minerals, languishes, dies.
It draws from a source that leaves you weak.
Tremulant voices of a crat time and time, but not a time again.
As Earthlings you shall weep.

Still legged promises, engraved on a heart of woven weeds say nothing about me. In conscious decay is when real strength shows. How do you save the world from the human race when the contest is all but over? All I can speak is speech for myself, every breath, every word, is one wasted. And when it comes to you, it comes ever so thick, solid. I can only speak for myself, but like a domino, my fall is pending, and when I go, so do they all!

When they come, you can hear the fear. They know, you know. It surrounds like a rotary speaker, sounds like theres a way out, but its all around, in every molecule. Theres no need for panic, although youre never prepared. When you finally know Equip Units exists, your times up. You can kick and scream. Or just walk. Qin chose a bit of both with a few caustic last words. We both know who the swine is. Struck!

Black. Not so dim-witted ay.. says a sycophant agent.

Every limb restrained, every thought examined. Now while the end is definite. The end is not near. Force fed with filth called food and disinformation called news the only movement is vision. Occasionally you can drift of, into a world a hope, where you still feel pain. But its always short lived as the led ruler comes down.

They equip with control, haste but also urgency? Some slip away during the night, a few slip away in face. They cant keep us all. And they know when you know. But the question is how? They can stop you when you dont know theyre coming, but when theyre here its a different story. I need you take me; this is some price for a bite of half assed fruit. I want to save it! I need you to take me, whispers Qin.

With one last gasp of stale air he knows he will never take another. It all makes sense to one, just not when projected. While it will be simply documented as the suicide of yet another swine due to the lies of the Book of Confrontations Qin knows better. In the final minutes reality gnaws at his edges. And it all makes sense. Its about being comfortable with yourself and standing on shaky ground when its easier to lie. You can only work within your means. If you passed a message on to two at the expense of one its a foundation. Its not about a boy in warrior suit but about a boy standing tall against Goliath. And with one last push against the mountain Qin slips away.

A Civilian Theory in Dystopia.


Manifold Heights, Australia

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