the scribblings of a maniac – pt 1

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The world seems to have lost, if not everything, then at least something. When I read of the chaos of this planet’s chief inhabitants, and when I walk out into the cities and towns surrounding me, I see nothing but hopelessness. Hope is there, certainly, but it exists not in the tangible, solid, and ever-present grandeur that defines this mess. The world is in chaos, and salvation does not seem likely.

Connection is, perhaps, what the world needs, but everything is connected. Roads span continents, and shipping lanes and airplanes can take a man wherever he desires. The phone lines and invisible wires of radio that entangle the atmosphere connect all to all. The mass of servers and computers and phones and all manner of electronic devices has woven itself into our society, yet the connection is not there. Cliques and clubs and schools of thought all converge and connect and mingle, but the outsiders have no place. Even those organizations created to connect the forgotten alienate by their very nature.

To walk through a crowded street in one of those seething anthills of people and their vehicles brings on an overwhelming sense of alone.

So much noise.

So many people.

Yet none even look twice.

Families walking through the parks look so content, sometimes. At others I see the parents and their children at odds: yelling, glaring, fussing, and pouting. Why? They have connections. They have love. They have a place to stay and an environment that provides. They hate their Audis because they are not the Mercedes, and they wish that their yacht was a bit larger than the one next door. Is this a reason to be discontented? From whence does it come?

I walk through a dirty, rough, sweaty street in a country that has the wealth of a large US-run business. The kids that play on the side of the road do so with playthings made of trash and old clothes. The clothes that serve their intended purpose look as though they had done so for many years, and would not for too many more. People watch as I walk by, and the dead stares give away nothing but a slight interest in the change of scenery. The children are a bit more interested, but they look more for what I might throw to them. Is there candy in that pocket?

The connection here is lost, or perhaps it never was. People live to survive; people die; the world spins, and the moon continues to stare on in silence.

Music floats down the roads. The sounds of people engaged. The words are obscured, but the tune is old and the sounds fervent. Here, perhaps, is a connection. I receive looks as I walk in the door, but the welcomes are hollow. Perhaps they are out of necessity. Perhaps they are not true. Perhaps they could be, but I am not listening.

Fade to black.

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