houseofmystery

"We don't talk about the past. The past is old. It's been and gone and it doesn't matter anymore. What matters... what's important... is this moment we live in. Not moments that we didn't draw breath inside. Not moments full of pain and humiliation, of our ancestors dying and screaming as our home is raped by passing travellers looking for new resources to peel from our planet's flesh. But I digress. No. This moment. This moment right here, in paradise, where all is well. That's what matters. And why would that change?"

My breath crackles at the back of my throat, reminding me of my weakness-- a genetic dead end with no chance of survival in this future that we build for ourselves. Each word is a strained silence before completion, each sentence an agonising eternity to complete. I struggle-- nearly fall, nearly falter-- to stand, at this moment in time, as I think about the future, about what I've subscribed to. This isn't what I want. Why would I? Why would I bother? But no. I'm weak. Stuck in the past, with the cripples and the pained and the broken, and there's no escape for me. My breath crackles and wheezes and weeps for freedom-- something I can never

We waste our days with second hand interaction, with social networking sites and instant messaging services. Our lives become blunt shells of what they could potentially be, and we don't care at all. This is almost ironic, the fact that I say this, that I post this thing here, because honestly, isn't posting on DeviantArt (tm) the exact same as going on Facebook (tm) to glut ourselves on other people's live or heading onto Myspace (tm) to listen to a friend's crappy garage band? It's harder, I suppose, to make the effort now. But why should we, when we can connect with the world within seconds, when a friend in America is "a click away", wh