Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

self. Je-sus… Who was this guy’s script writer? Maybe he could hook me
up with an eight-ball or two? At the same time, in a way, he could relate.
“…The sun where my self is burned away as it unites with its opposite.
And here, that which showed me the way in the first place has
turned her back upon me. The world that I entered with her became me.
It was my pole-star. What can I do to aright this? Fight?!” his monologue
was reaching a fever pitch. He had lost himself in the speech, but when
he looked up, he found a look of understanding in Don’s eyes, although
there was something hard there too.
Alexi continued. “Oh, yes. I ‘fought.’ I fought so hard that I lost sight
of what I was fighting for, and possibly, although I can barely dare to
admit it to myself, I was blinded in the sun. Text-book Hubris. Maybe I
am not so much betrayed as betrayer, as I drove away her affections in
my feverish, blind and stupid charge for our future, a future only imagined,
dreamed of, and then frightened off. …How could I talk to them
about the plans that I had without it short-circuiting? It was only myself,
my dreams, and my hopes that I loved, and in that, I have betrayed them
all. Here it has become a fight against ‘society,’ when we are the real
enemies and the real barriers against our safe passage. One layer of mask
is cut away merely to reveal another, as every ‘perfect idea,’ every
utopian dream of ours becomes little more than a cage, revealing nothing
other than the very nature of our most base desires and fears.” He paused
a moment, re-oriented, and then leaped forward again, suddenly on a new
tangent. “This novel I have committed myself to, I fear, is a tragedy, and
I am too immersed in it to write myself any ending but that which is
expected: all tragedies end in death. And yet, paradoxically, with the
knowledge that this is merely a novel, there is nothing to lose and nothing
to gain. None of us contain anything but words and the paper they are
written on, and it is those words which allow us to define our rising and
falling action, our enemies, and even the character that we are to play.
There is no escape from the forces of equilibrium, the silent and deadly
gravity which forces you to live your past over and over again. This is
the irony, we don’t write our characters on a blank slate. Don, I feel that
you speak my language, and that’s why I’m telling you this. I don’t see
any reason to believe in ‘truth,’ nor any blemish or flaw in a world without
certainty, yet I must say that all I have said to you tonight is a lie that
lies closest to my heart, and whether it proves itself foolish or false, I still
call it ‘true.’”
They continued on towards the factory.
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