Harbinger

A sound pierces the chattering in the plaza, driving discord into even the loudest conversations. Its attenuation is as abrupt as its arrival, sapping all life from its surroundings, dragging it all into silence. The suffocating quietude demanding a justification for its sudden entrance, those yet gossiping among the crowd join the rest, gazing at the source.

A newly taped poster; a warning, a plea. A message seeking to make its mark upon any onlookers. And a figure moving away from it, seemingly uncaring of the responses the action has garnered. A soul too preoccupied with thoughts and emotions stemming from one single, burning, repressed question.

Another identical page, bearing the same content, fixed upon the next segment of wall. The figure moving away with the same disconnected, slumped strides. With the shock subsided, noise begins to fill the vacuum back in, yet not the same as before. Mumbling and hushed whispers, not in idle conversation, but about the new arrival.

The figure keeps their tempo, head and momentum fixed in the direction of their next target, looking away from their conflictingly desired audience. Ignoring the fragments of words seeping in across the distance, only the intent making any impact upon the obscured being. Only the intent, and the mass of burning glares they were uttered from.

The motion betrays no hint of affect, hands performing their motif once again, unburdened by the world around them; by the mind guiding them. After all, what was there really to distract them from their toil? The voices swelling within the dull cacophony were as always a mix, some familiar and some new. Youth lashing out at their inaction called into question. The old lashing out against perceived accusation. The speakers differing, yet the chord plays the same. A chord given substance by the echoes of the silent harbinger yet resonating.

Venom born in the psyche, seeping out into the world surrounding it. Ire, seeking to work its way into the ones that came before. Was the anger ever simply disavowing grandstanding or simply sheltering denial? The hate ever righteous scorn or an attempt at keeping the illusion of peace? Did it matter when the resentment made itself known regardless? When their warnings remained spurred? When their pleas remained shunned? Should there be any surprise then, when what was received now was exactly what had been earned?

Years of reflection had turned the words inward, the vitriol finding new prey. Repugnance in reality blurring with self-inflicted penance that would never truly atone. The pain and hurt, indignation and misery, distilled down into numbness from repetition upon repetition within mental shackles. The words finding a mind too jaded to hook into. All save one.

A word not uttered by the crowd standing at attention. A word too retrospective, that would lay bare the emotional turmoil that lay beneath. A word that would sting inward more than at its recipient. A word unspoken, its absence deafening. One the mind was quick to dredge back up in a shrill mental recollection.

Hypocrite.

Hypocrite.

H Y P O C R I T E.

…

The rage ebbs away as it always has, washing ashore what it always did: desperation and sorrow, grief and disgust; nauseating despair. Emotions mirrored within those scant few that stilled their tongues. Those few that had let the delusion fall and had come face to face with the calamitous ruin that awaits all that live.

What other reaction could be appropriate given what must be acknowledged? How else would one feel upon having their hopes and dreams dashed to nothing? Their ambitions and aspirations rendered futile? The results of their accomplishments becoming meaningless? What else would one feel when everything they have ever known and cherished, everything they could ever know and cherish, is doomed to oblivion? What else would one feel when even the bled and fought for meager scraps, so freely given to others, are taken away?

What else could one feel when facing the decay of everything that is, and everything that could have been? Denial. Grief. Anger. Depression. But never acceptance, not for this.

Utter helplessness, belies the crowd, even in those whose ire has not yet dulled; repressed yet imposed all the same. The hands of the herald continue their self-imposed task, ignoring the change in those around them, even that within their owner.

The end had lost its impact; the constant mulling across time, dulling the blow with each recurrence. Each passing reflection growing fainter and fainter in its prick. Yet the full capacity for depression, remained the same, giving way for darker implications to torment the self.

Each cycle growing ever dimmer in its amplitude. Each extreme less pronounced, chipped away ever slowly, ground towards nothing. Was there even a point to this all? To this drab ritual of posturing? Did this even accomplish anything at all, save acting as a panacea for the conscience, and even beginning to fail at that?

The cycle had been perpetuated by many that came before, each facing their own ridicule, each enduring the ire of those around them… yet each having accomplished nothing to stem the tide. Guilt, self-flagellation and despair; and yet nothing to show for them save dejection and apathy. The impending end approached all the same, unwavering in its march.

There never really was a chance to fix things. All power to do so was long since ceded to the oligopolies of the world. The same few perpetrators acting as bastions of progress. Poisoning the world in the name of their all-consuming conquest for growth. And who could really stop them, save for themselves?

These pointless demonstrations were admission enough weren’t they? That their power had become so encompassing that the average person could do nothing of true substance, only try to wash their hands of the hideous mass of exploitation. Yet that did nothing to halt the advance, nor absolve any involvement in the demise of life.

They were still here, alive and well-off enough to even ponder their place in the world, after all. Not like those unfortunate enough to claw for scraps, desperate to grow like the rest if only for survival. Their very existence would serve to fuel the machines further. No, there really never was any choice. The course was set long before, by men long since deceased or nearing that state. There really was nothing to do but wait and weep until even the tears would no longer flow. Until apathy set in.

The hands pause for the first time, for the briefest hint. A pause perceptible only to those that shared that core of emptiness. Recognition, found within a remnant of the one that came before. A shred of a poster still affixed; decayed yet familiar still to the digits that had torn off what they could. A memory of a man despised, of a man dejected; of a man revered too late.

A memory given form by the one standing next to the tattered pieces. Eyes frantically search the face, one last vain hope to find anything; anger, smugness, camaraderie… anything but a reflection of their own futility: of the jaded, cynical pit where all these efforts would really lead. Into oblivion.

The final stretch of adhesive now spent, there is nothing more for the broken spirit to do. Awareness would never solve what was a problem of impotence, bringing only rage and despair against the inevitable. This endeavor accomplished nothing, brought no value. Even the possibility of healing an ailing mind was shattered, leaving only a cold indifference. Like all who came before, there was nothing more to do but leave, to try to find some peace in this nightmare of their own making.

The figure rounds a corner and fades from memory, the echo of footfalls soon following suit. Another forgotten someone crushed by their own naivety- their own hope. The plaza will recover, if not by the morning, by the next. Until then, the long walk home is serenaded by a chorus mimicking the inner lamentations.

To what end?