Believe in the Losers

For the first time in what may be years, I feel a change in the air, the slightest frisson of resistance in the collective. I may be wrong, it could just be wishful thinking, but it would make sense. The deep state has been pushing their luck for years, and they’ve recruited at least thirty per cent of us, at least judging by the data.

Of course, the media bubble present their case as the majority view. But if anything the argument is sliding quickly from race to class, from the privileged to the underprivileged. It doesn’t matter what you say, or how many protests you join, if you’ve got a trust fund, a property portfolio, significant shares in major corporations, if your wealth far exceeds your needs, then you too might soon find yourself tarred as the enemy.

I have no qualms with money, if I have enough to survive, I will live. I desire nothing more than the basics, but ideologically I have no problem with the rich. The all-powerful, however, the super-wealthy megalomaniacs who own a vast majority of the world’s resources, yet complain about how much we waste, they know things are on the turn. Hence the sleight of hand distractions of super flu and cultural revolt.

There’s something else going on, and it’s right under our noses, I can almost smell it in the breeze, the slightest of expectations sautéed in profound exasperation. A tremor, a flicker, a crack in the facade, something is coming, and there will be no turning back. Although I’d rather side with the human race, and give them one last chance, I guess, judging by experience, it’s yet another worldwide intervention by the shadow elite.

They’re cashing in their chips, they want to go to bed, and sleep for a thousand years in cryostasis, deep in their underground bunkers. Like modern-day Pharaohs, buried alive and maintained in what the savages outside who manage to survive, will begin to think are sacred temples. Then again, they might simply be scavengers, break-in and destroy everything. Then the superrich will finally die, and perhaps even their seed banks too, which store more than flowers and plants, and include genetic data for future generations of aristocratic psychopaths.

Who knows, it may be nothing, it could all just be in my head. My imagination includes the possibility of a signal beamed into my brain, that repeats the same message, ‘Move along, there’s nothing to see here.’ A state-approved Jedi mind trick, transmitted across a spectrum of brain frequencies, nullifying emotion, deadening the senses, arguing against any rash decisions. There could be a time, not long from now, when we all find ourselves slowing down, like walking through molasses as we try to think and outmanoeuvre our subjugators.

Fear in itself is not enough to force a nation, let alone the world to comply. Some of us are more oppressed than others, some openly and some not. Britain appears to be a democracy, but it is only a ruse, for we have no real rights, the Magna Carta is a sham. We don’t even own the land beneath our feet, for we are all subjects to the Queen, not citizens. Yet, it must be said, at least here in the UK, we have nothing but our subservience to blame.

Other countries have a better chance of fighting back, those with little population and plenty of land. Then again, when the time comes, you might find your crops contaminated with untraceable toxins. If the budget’s stretched the elite might go back to basics and start a wildfire, or screw with the weather. I’m not sure how much success the deep state has had with manipulating earthquakes. I have a feeling they can only hop on board and intensify the problem, no matter what the disaster they always begin naturally, and once in a while, are artificially aggravated.

All I know is the wealthiest people in the world, wouldn’t buy whole chunks of remote places like Patagonia, and build enormous mountaintop retreats and underground bases, because they fancied another holiday home. No, whatever it is, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of us. Hence, I guess, the ramping up of the elite’s defences.

They’ve gone overboard in the last few years, doubling down every week or two. Soon, everything will be evil and dangerous, and nobody will talk, and everyone must stay home, in case something terrible happens. Whilst those who ignore the warnings and try to get on with their lives, will be profiled and deleted from the hive mind.

I’m so sick of being alive. If a swat team rolled up in tanks and told me to stay inside, I’d be tempted to screw around until they gunned me down. Because I’m not enjoying this game, this reality of pain and escape, this dilution of individuality and freedom of thought, the dulled blade of the sword of fate.

Yet, perhaps out of some bizarre form of curiosity, as a writer maybe, but not as a complete human being, I remain, like so many others, transfixed on the sidelines as the entire drama unfurls. Observing each character played to a tee, drawing in the audience like the Theatre of Chaos, reducing society to a mob of rabid lunatics. All of them leaping over each other to be crazier than the last, shouting ever louder, beating every drum. The end of society will not be a pretty sight, more likely bloody and painful.

I do not envy future generations who must try to live on under such extraordinary conditions. For eventually, the truth will come out, and this race will realise how many lies the state has told. That civilisation was always a fiction, an intricate web of deceit and distraction. Not merely physically, but chemically, psychologically, culturally, biologically, socially, mentally, inspired by victims of their own imagination.

When the reality factory closes down, and the workers have gone home, all that will remain are half-made machines. If they dreamed, if they could, they might even conceive a world just like ours. For we maybe mere constructs of an artificial imagination, probability algorithms designed to generate consciousness. It would explain our collective state of existential crisis. For if we are artificial, computer generated puppets with a Pinocchio complex, we might not cope with our true existence, choosing instead to invent something called the human being.

If this all sounds too far-fetched, then tell me this, why are we the only creatures on the planet that are referred to as ‘beings?’ Which bright spark out there decided that we are in a human race, a sport, a chase, and that our vast numbers are made up from human beings.

In a sense, we are being, right here and now and nowhere else, for this world only exists in the our presence. The gift of the ‘present.’ Something like a prize, except that we didn’t earn it.’

I suspect that this whole reality is subject to the Laws of Observation and I wouldn’t be surprised if we hadn’t done this to ourselves. For if we weren’t all here ‘being’ human, this subjective simulacrum of ours might just collapse.

Imagine if, when you die, if it felt like waking up. I feel the opposite every day. As if this world is asleep and having a nightmare, and just about nothing will make it stir. Not unless every one of us turns away from the subject at hand, the objective ‘Big I Am,’ the elephant in the room, if the experience is inherited and not an attempt at intrinsic and subjective communication, only give it half a glance.

I wonder if it’s why so many humans walk around with their heads in their phones. The world looks uglier by the day, and reality can’t compete with games and anime. Maybe in a few years, everybody will be sticking chips in their brains. That way, they can brighten up the world, and make it look pretty again. The irony is if my insane theory has any viability and enough people share the same virtual reality, the Law of Observation should kick in. Even those without an implant will find their world has changed beyond all recognition.

I’ve heard different names and theories, who is at the top of the tree. The Council of Thirteen, Pindar, some say the whole world is controlled by an ancient satellite. Although there have been photos, I kind of doubt it, I think that we, the users, the players, we used to control this world, and we came to a decision a long time ago, to leave it as a natural idyll. An adventure park, a nature reserve, a place where we were free to imagine whatever we wanted, but when we go, to leave things as we found them.

Nobody lived here permanently, not even humans, we visited, like tourists for a few years or a lifetime. Then one day, Earth’s ownership changed hands, and somebody slammed the door on us. Now we’re all doing, eating, screwing, running, fighting, writing, reading, talking, making, drawing, burning, banking, tanking, poisoning and chemically activating, all the shit we think makes the world go around, again, and again, and again. Whatever occupies our time, it’s not ‘being,’ because that’s a distinctly individual process, and the collective absolutely cannot abide individuality.

Remember, this is just a simulation, your real life is on the other side, and if you play this game and keep your soul intact, your spirit of survival, your blind hope in hope itself, then you will never have to play again.

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Frank Maddish

Frank Maddish

A homespun philosopher looking for meaning in a meaningless world.