The uniformity. It’s maddening. It’s all one can see for miles upon miles. Rectangular cuts that form rectangular shapes. Followed by rectangular cuts that form rectangular shapes. Straight, geometrically precise lines, and nothing else. Perfectly rigid, exceedingly…proper. Mathematically, it’s all so delightfully accurate. But your mind…your mind craves something else. Makes your very soul nauseous and sick. You’re afraid to look anywhere. Everywhere is just that stoic, stern, impersonal regimentation.
Goodness, it all sends a shiver down your spine. Your blood turns into ice in your veins, goosebumps forming along your arms. Eyes darting nervously in all directions. Palms moistened by sweat. Is no one else seeing this? The corridors upon corridors of clinical exactness. All blurring together. Which street is that? What building did you pass? You can’t tell. It all runs together in your vision. All so cut and dry, cut and dry. Did humans even make this?
Looming ever so large, everything around serves to remind you of your infinitesimal existence. The utter insignificance of you. To the people around you, and even to yourself. Swallowed into a kind of…void. A black hole, where any sort of light is ruthlessly drawn in and torn apart, before being gulped down, like a gluttonous man chewing ravenously on steak. Brutalist, so vulgarly brutalist. Possessed with a kind of haunting cleanliness. Yet, it’s all so dirty. Christ, what is that awful smell? It reeks of rot and decay. Perhaps it is humanity’s soul, trapped and dying in this maze of square paths and a hate for all that once was.
Desolation and despair seems to be the order of the day. It teems with human life, yet if it weren’t for that, it’d be a concrete desert. A jungle without an ecosystem. Uninhabited. Inanimate. The very construction of this place seems antithetical to life itself. Quite in opposition to fostering the flourishing of any life. One could argue, indeed, that it does, given the plethora of humans locked within its grid, its four walls, which we never seem quite free from, but while it may breed more of the killers, it also kills the killers themselves. Mortality rates through the roof for infants. Gunshots aimed at either the heads of others or their own heads. Starvation and dehydration. Let it be known, this is a giant factory of death, a concentration camp.
The deeper you go into it, the more you immerse yourself in its levels, the more nightmarish it becomes. Possessed by some sort of devilish character that no one else will admit to. Rotten, you shall become. Dirtier and dirtier, the foul stench clinging to you like the jaws of a wolf to a lone bison. Its taint spreads like wildfire, or a virus, and burrows deep into the depths of anyone brought into its fray. Poisoning them, wrecking their insides. Gnawing away at their innards, scooping out whatever sense of life they might’ve had. A vampire, draining the life of everyone in its vicinity, in order to feed itself. And it is always, always hungry, ravenous, gluttonous, in its endless appetite. Most of them unaware that the venom has seeped in, poisoned their veins.
Emotion? You dare speak or think of emotion here? Nay, you shake your head in dismay. There is none. You can see it in the faces of the passerbys. Blank expressions, with hollow eyes and exposed lines. Reanimated by the false stimuli that the is constantly pumped into their bodies and minds. Jolted by electrifying impulses, to bring about a rush of serotonin and dopamine. Force a smile, even though they’re all empty inside. Whatever they feel, isn’t real.
It can all be boiled down to simple chemical reactions. That’s it. Jolts of the flesh and mind, when reacting to something it’s been trained to salivate at. Pursuing the lotus, whatever form it takes. Wealth, wealth, the sacred cow of our age. Always reminded of it at every turn.
Let it be known, this is not wealth.
The monster knows this.
All the faces blur together. Who is who? What is their name? Don’t know, and you don’t even really care. You see so many of them. Your ability to feel for them dwindles into nothing. Especially since whenever they acknowledge your existence, it’s always a pale imitation of some kind of feeling. It disgusts you, how much you talk like them. Look like them. Feel like them. Act like them. But you haven’t a choice. Well, you do. A slow death, or a quick one.
Complaints arise that people are lost. The morale and the psychological condition of all those around are falling by the wayside. The loss of customs and traditions. The decay of various manufactured values and needs and wants. Descending into the pits of Hell. Various people are scapegoated. For good reason, since there are quite a few to blame. But they’re symptoms of the bigger problem, naturally. Yet, no one wants to address the underlying issue.
Watched, watched all the time. Watchers everywhere. Eyes on every street corner. No privacy, none. Private space? What private space? You’re not safe. Subconsciously, you know you aren’t. It panics you sometimes. Drives you into anxious fits and tumultuous slumbers. Unable to sleep, tossing and turning as everything seems to be closing in on you. Where does it stop? Where does it end? How long can it go on?
It’s enough to make you scream in agony and fear.
Peace and quiet. That’s all you want. Peace and quiet. But you don’t get it. There’s ceaseless noise. An unending stream of loud, invasive volumes. Every piece of wretched machinery belches pure hate out of its throat. Constantly interrupting your train of thought. What were you even thinking about? Oh, nothing. It’s not important. The blueprint for Auschwitz and Dachau said it wasn’t, so, you shrug your shoulders in a dejected manner, shake your head, sighing heavily.
As a result, rest never truly comes. You wondered if you’ve ever really slept. Or been awake, for that matter. Just drifting, floating in the empty void. Are you even real? Is any of this even real? Silly question. Of course it isn’t. It’s all a bad joke. A terrible ruse. Some devious prank played by some foolish men in bygone times.
You want to give in to all the methods that make you want to forget.
But you don’t want to lose yourself.
On the other hand, what is your “self?”?
Could you even know?
Do you even want to?
So, you crave rest. Naturally. You crave the absence of noise. But, ironically, the absence of noise affords you no relief, either, does it? You’ve been conditioned to find a strange comfort in the constant churning of the always present hallways you find yourself stuck within. In the absence of it, you grow anxious. Antsy. Disturbed. In a certain sense, you associate it with death. Insomnia takes you either way.
On the other hand, who’s to say you aren’t already dead? Were you ever really alive?
Your body moves along like a machine, but inside, you’re aware that something is deeply wrong with the very soul you possess.
Packed like sardines in a can. Best way to describe this situation, isn’t it? How utterly trapped you are, being pressed upon by all sides, thanks to the ever-increasing mass. It terrifies you. Frightens you. Surrounded by strangers as sick and loathsome as yourself. Can’t breathe. You feel as if you might choke. Always the lingering sensation of some invisible hand pressing against your throat, squeezing and gripping, crushing your windpipe. And you see shadows that aren’t really there. Yet, who’s to say they aren’t? There’s always a pale look about you. A nervous gleam in your eyes. An ache in your chest that sometimes cripples you.
It’s all a powder keg. Waiting to blow. Sooner or later, it’s going to shatter into pieces. A glass house, trembling as the breezes of time swiftly blow by.