I Have a Dream (it’s also actionable intelligence).
Pull your heads out of your ill-fated asses.
At one time I thought myself an alternative to the BS. That I served as an agreeable respite from the crap being shoved down our collective throats. As of late, I wonder if I'm just peddling a different brand. That I'm not exactly being as forthcoming as I thought I was. That everything is tailored toward some ill-defined aggrandizement.
Whereas I once deluded myself that the subsidy of readers’ time warranted the expenditure of mine, I'm not feeling it.
The desire to write, to tell my story - or, at least my side of it - just ain’t what it used to be. Probably because I recognize that squandered time is its own crime-in-progress, and time is the one thing we are all running out of.
I do know that I want to make sure that those who have in some manner displayed allegiance or acted in support of me in our waning days are greatly appreciated.
Conversely, I want those that have failed to come through for me to be likewise acknowledged. Particularly those for whom I’d gone out of my way to accommodate in some measure, especially as it is as uncommon as it is uncomfortable for me to do so. To try harder to get along with those that are dismissive of the overture? That are not willing to give as much?
Abandon it.
Not “Forget it,” despite its handedness as a colloquial, but literally abandon it. Abandon the relationship. Abandon the hope. Abandon the illusion. And *remember* why you abandoned it. Because invariably, in some manner they had already abandoned you. That includes friends, relatives, co-workers. (If memories are ultimately what make us what we are, then I am no older then 10 or 11 years. I don't want to be.)
Elsewhere in a land where many a county seat should be an electric chair, murder-suicide is usually a case of right idea, wrong order.
But one wonders why it doesn’t become a public service event more often. That at a time when we need fewer suspended sentences and more suspended necks we might see a killer-to-be taking a few of these blood-thirsty fucks with him instead of kindergartners and country music fans.
Am I wrong?
That’s a rhetorical. Of course, I’m correct as mine is the muzzled voice of reason, seeing things not as I’d like them to be but as they are.
And with the Black Swan that is Baltimore’s Francis Scott Key Bridge we can check off another in the whole predictive programming scheme (you did see that Obama Netflix production, no?). The globalists are nothing if not good at telegraphing their every punch.
Still, they couldn't kill off the gays, and AIDS didn't sufficiently deter heterosexuals from procreative activity. So they tried the tier-fatality plandemic, with lackluster results given their ambitions. And so it’s come to these tit-for-tat escalations for World War 3 (or 4, as some would decree).
Bad enough that the Black Nobility has spent so much money to emasculate males, undermine females, destroy sovereignties, and dumb down all. But as one contemplates the growing numbers of Americans being killed by illegals enjoying all manner of government benefits and immunities, they realize they are not only literally subsidizing their own throat-slitting, they are increasingly likely to find themselves killing in defense of themselves or others.
Sadly, one cannot articulate these obvious probabilities without leaving oneself exploitable to accusations of premeditation and racism should one find oneself later immersed in such a predictable scenario. And so more heads in the sand.
And yet we are undeniably becoming unwilling experts on thanology - the study of death and dying. So what if the CDC suddenly doesn’t have yearly cancer fatality data since 2021. We see the explosion of turbo cancers and even the most gullible wonder if those images of Kate Middleton aren’t really AI generated and that she’s already joined Liz and Andy.
Fortunately, mine is a mind more easily stimulated to anger than action; I can encourage and excoriate with equal elan, without planting placards in my dead lawn or yelling on street corners for reparations at having been bullied as a youth.
This is my artistic revenge. It is Picasso parodying Velasquez. It is Mark Twain lampooning James Fenimore Cooper. It’s George Orwell allegorizing the Russian revolution. Muzzled, or not, I can at least use the technocrats’ tools to make sure that some suppressed record of my take of the proceedings remains so long as any incarnation of society does. Or I do.
To that end, I had a heart attack a few years ago. Twice my heart stopped beating in the hospital while I was sleeping obligating a nurse to rouse me. Each time I’d been in a REM state that hadn’t ceased until I was awakened. Each time I’d felt no pain.
Is it possible to die and not feel anything? Save for some chemically induced euphoria, could any end be better?
The dream would simply end.
And so would the nightmare.
Read this through twice, and some sections several times more. At first the rhetoric felt bleak, somewhat nihilistic at worst but wistful and authentic nonetheless. We are the sum of our memories and experiences, annealed then forged in flames on the anvil with each successive hammer blow, steaming when immersed to quench in the trough. Yet we are easily dented and bowed, sometimes shattered into pieces, melted down and reformed again and again. For me Dean, you are the bellows, the hammer and the quencher in equal measure. Another thought provoking tour de force. Bravo sir.
Fwiw, I enjoyed reading your article. Be brave. Stay strong. Best, Carol