The fascist. They’re upset an idea of the past is stuck there.
It appears to them so much better than the suffering of now.
And so they pluck bits from old pages and pictures,
Morphing them into a hideous collage of infatuation,
Slandering them overtop a reality of shared suffering,
Longing for relief from this moment in images long past.
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The Lifestyle Imagery of a known past can appear a better rhythm to live,
As much as a far future’s dream looks to be a more hopeful experience.
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But you live solidified and dead in the past,
As you exist shattered by possible futures,
This moment will be all the clarity you get.
So cherish what you have, as you have it,
That your lifestyle will embellish your mysterious soul,
Not only reflect images from an unknowable past one.
And that your hopes will bring better shared futures,
Not only timelines you’ve bent to your manic luck.
The past is there to live from,
The future is there to live for,
But now is what you live in,
So be there with it,
React to it,
Speak to it.
Not dead or shattered by time,
Not collaging images stuck in your mind,
Not dreaming of better futures without you,
Instead, living your time to align its extents.
It wasn’t why I started this, that choice came long before me.
It wasn’t how I got through it, that is the way we all had to be.
But it was how I ended things that began my next possibility,
Being the completeness of a story to jumpstart a new reality.
The system output a self-righteous, communal neurotic to stop its takeover by an apocalyptic, grandiose narcissist.
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The grandiose looked to divide into tribe, ordain its decree, embellish as a brilliant monarch, and had grown intrigued with a world seeking to brighten or dim its shine. The formative light of a fascist.
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The self-righteous had a family tradition to uphold, a blind faith needing enforcement, tweaked paranoia as a moral judge, and dismissed a world seeking recovery. The shadows of a devote saint.
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The first sought its own burning light to scorch across the face of the earth,
The second stirred a fire in the heart of all others from their sickly devotion.
The first had only itself to contain itself, only desire to fuel it, used others as a vanity of engorgement, and saw a world ready to blazon their image upon.
An army is all they need.
The second saw its image reflected in the face of devotees, spoken in familiar word, and responded to uphold those traditions as their own image.
A community is all they need.
The first spoke fire from brilliant display, the second wove fear by community tie.
The first burned poison up into our body, the second burned fear down in our soul.
So which to choose if a choice must be made?
I know no future except of today, but I will always choose a way to allow our fire within to burn and spread, warding off heavenly darkness through shared flame.
And even if an old shadow must dwell in heaven, upholding a sickly devotion, it has allowed space for our hearts to shine together with bodies unburnt by fascist rage.
We can renew hallowed halls within the fading memories of a grand communal tale, but must find vision to see past fog, forgetting old stories, singing new echoes along.
The last two Managers of Mithra,
Flipping sides of the same heavy coin,
One of bursting body, the other of vulnerable mind,
One raging poison to your biology, one eking fear in your brain.
Without them we may yet come together,
For with them we had to rely on each other.