After the After

So in this Nation of celebrities; schnooks; has-beens; never-beens; writers; programmers; hackers; convicts; executives; serfs, Information Architects and all manner of Data manipulators and  killer-cop-thieves, a Nation too big for one to know, much less understand, one is walking with a friend, young and ebullient on the asphalt – no; that was ages ago,  many years…experience, on the ebullient asphalt…

All are common who have found no voice.  One has not  found voice in wake of this riotous din.  One keeps to oneself, as far as possible from the hoi-polloi and their electronic gadgets, do-dads, baubles. A thinking man seeks peace.

Fired by lust, they go out into the world and get things done, sow their seed, and sleep in peace, content in their instinct to always, always  find where Life is, hunt it down, and kill it, leaving  slops and gristle for the voiceless common.

But does it matter after (there’s always an “after,” when no one recalls the doings of one’s forebears), and after that after, after the final after in blankness, where actions are not marked, nor deeds recorded?

Does it matter after curves in space, the next bird, if one mastered dialog and faith, was a philosopher-king who dug deep, and like the worm in his garden, perished?

It is what it is. Read other articles by Xero.