We are the Ninety-Nine

We are the Ninety-Nine — a troupe of homo sapiens cradled in our own imaginations and the belief that there’s more to this life than the collection of preordained requirements for living. We are the bank tellers, the shop assistants, the labourers, the plebs, the ladies smiling reassuringly as we hand you the things you need to live, and the things you think you need to live that you don’t need at all. We are the ones telling you that everything will be fine with our warm, flushed faces and our sing-song words but we know it won’t be; and we know it isn’t.

We are the children playing in the streets, shooting pellets at each other’s feet and dodging cars that appear out of nowhere. We are the ones fashioning musical instruments out of old car parts and winding fishing gut around our wrists with beads and wire casings. We are the babies, suckling at the teats of radio jingles and pamphlet lullabies. When you see us, you’ll think we’re stuck in another world — a place that can’t be — but it’s you who is dreaming. We are awake.

We are the men grinding away with our tools, building your empires, stitching your protective gear, in amidst the flames. We are the hands planting seeds and watching our saplings grow, turning to tall, hardy trees that bear fruit beyond your comprehension, while you begin to wither and search for the sunlight — desperately seeking nourishment. We are the eyes that see everything, the hurt, the pain, the welts, the sickness, the light, the beauty, while you remain oblivious — blinded by TV screens and your own notions of grandeur.

We are the lovers gazing across far spaces, right into one another, dreaming of a scent. We are the giants weaving our way around our beloved elephants as they trail along behind us, excited to play. We are the shepherds, dreaming as we walk the pastures, wondering how far we will go. We are the cracked walls, inhaling the pollution and the suffering and the wonder into our stiff lungs as they turn to steel. We are the old Fords galloping along the streets, drifting off into a trance under a blanket of clouds and the shadows of the mountains. We are the ones who touch and fight and long for company, and isolation from the harsh reign of our heartbreaking “masters” who view us as a blurry number.

And at the end of the day, we are the ones who will see your faces when you blanket yourself with your wealth and your crowns. We will be there to tear away the illusion, as we stare right into the crevice. When your gluttony has wormed its way right in and eaten everything, we will be there to show you what you were really hungry for all along. Your paper won’t protect you. Your clothing won’t help you find any meaning in any of it, and there won’t be anyone to help you because there are just too many of us now.

We are the Ninety-Nine, an unstoppable force of humanity that itches for a new order, and if you are not with us, then you are The One — carrying the target on your chest.

You are the twisted bodies lying on the ash-covered lawns. You are the frowning faces, barking at waitresses and standing on grasshoppers for fun. You are the cretins destroying lives with your cold words, and cutting down all the trees to scratch your backs with, and one day, when you close your heavy, cement eyes (out of habit) you will never open them again.

This is the second installment in a series of tandem blog posts with James, Megan, Sarah, Dave, Nick, Brett, Cath & Scott. Read another take on this week’s theme -Ninety-Nine - by clicking on one of the links above, grandma.