Political dagger
Written by: Student
To wage war on narratives is like donning a suit of steel armor upon the body of one's nerves and psyche. Hungry brains are not in pursuit of new ideas, but of immediate news; thirsty for dopamine and for whatever the brain screams in a dark, endless cave: "I want more." It is as if no echo or trace of a sound from any living thing will arise for years to come. They are busy tearing apart the stitched-lipped mannequins inside the mirror, or perhaps they have heard and pretend not to know! Hush! Hand in hand, without acknowledging their complicity. What are they looking at? At the thousand-year achievement of scrutinizing every inch of the body with each entry and exit into this putrid graveyard?! To hell with this mechanism! They scatter dust. They scatter dust on creation by thriving on mere survival! They spill no information outwardly, but inwardly, they slash the walls of their collapsed frame time and again. A seductive narrative settles incessantly on tongues; who is playing the fool on purpose? Perhaps a child who has stolen something and cannot remember, knowingly plays the fool so they will chalk it up to his childishness. Meanwhile, a carcass, in response to a message from another carcass that has been folded and become flowery, threatens: what a fine mess they've landed him in! The street narrative is crammed down with oaths and verses and hadiths and coquetry and flirtation and a few untouched votive dishes seasoned with a pair of pink *doshkas*; "force-feeding" is the keyword of days gone by, but no one lets on. A broad bean vendor cries out: It's piping hot!! The news is reviewed again with a touch, from the very latest. The narratives are the talk of gatherings; everyone has memorized them.
