Mercy

With those who have been saved from escaping hell on earth, standard procedure is to send them on rehab. Rehabilitation. Debilitation to make you fit the machinery of production and consumption, also known as eating and excreting. The pinnacle of Mother Nature’s latest effort to be taken by surprise by her own ingenuity. Won’t somebody have mercy, if not on themselves then at least on our beneficiary so she won’t have reason to be ashamed of her efforts?

To feel mercy, it occurred to Pravda, she would have to care for somebody or something. Since it’s hard to get emotionally involved with things, to be saved herself she had to get involved with someONE, someBODY, fragrant and irreplaceable. A person of an individual mind frame and emotional set-up that would be unique and not manufactured according to industrial standards. Else she might as well fall in love with a Barbie Doll, a Justin Blubber or Smiley Vitrilious Doll as so many among our contemporaries do, known as the electorate and entitled to vote on who will shape the future of humankind …

Have mercy. Yes. What saved Pravda from being consumed with disgust when called to yet another session with the reptilian in charge of her future and destiny, was a young guy on the same ward with her. So many young and promising dreamers who could not take any more common sense reality, their last shreds of hope that life might improve gone down the drain of mental and emotional sanitation. No other promise but more of the same. Duh …

We may all suffer more or less similar miseries. What makes a difference is how we deal with it. With that young guy Pravda felt she could relate, if only because he hardly ever talked. Talking seemed a waste of breath to him. Acting and interfering in general a waste of energy and resources. Whatever life held in store for him, let him have it and see if he cared …

This was different from the posers who feel great about showing the finger to the world. As if the world cared about anybody’s posing, defiant or compliant. It eats, digests and excretes us, mere matter to feed on and support its mechanism of reduplicating itself. Until something unexpected happens. A weird notion of things no one has ever seen, heard or felt. Where do such notions originate? Do we need to know? Does it matter? What mattered to Pravda was where it might take her. The farther out and away from the hell of common sense animals, the better …