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.

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