The
Fulcrum. We give birth to our parents and they to us. Picking blackberries in
the eternal forest, fingers purpled and sticky. The fulcrum. To finally tilt
the balance, hoist this huge weight and thereby make space for the revelation,
whether it be something older than the earth or new born, mewling like a babe,
umbilical cord still tied to its past.
To shift
that great weight of error and injustice, compounded by each generation, as
power is centralised and consolidated, as wealth is accumulated and hoarded,
wealth spawning more wealth, monopolies, both acknowledged and tacit, and
cartels where there are not monopolies How horror show, how hideous, how
ghoulish and invidious. The situation, in its essence, has not changed for over
2000 years. The Way of the World. We avert our gaze.
To resist
is to be lashed ever more tightly to the enemy. Not to resist is to collude. We
are fatally compromised. History, a caul, clings to us.
Compromised, which is perhaps, the
point.
Neutrality
being impermissible in a War Universe.
WHOWS
SIDE ARE YIO ON ANYWAY?
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