Prose

Pariah 1

written by: alf hickey

Sitting in the house, he played music of the requiem. Waking to the wind of no purpose, a sun of darkness. He looked inside and out and realised he was a prisoner. Prisoner of the planet, this body, people and the place in which he lived. Also a prisoner to money.

He left the house with his wallet annoying his pocket. If he used just a plastic card, it would snap as he ran for the tram. If he had cash, surely it would fall out, or dissapear as he pulled out other cash. Even a biochip, Rockerfeller's money device, would give control to this one world government they were all planning.

The Pariah walked out, hating to catch transport. He thought the world is freedom phobic, they like the jail, their peaceful tent. He thought though, this is because they are in denial of their imprisonment, slave to their fear of others, to hide away, block others out. Even a prisoner can feel free with the right drug, or delusional psychosis. He remembered how they always say, "One person can't change anything." This statement made him want to projectile puke when he thought of it. He thought that they're in self reinforcing delusions.

When he explained what he thought, he would get strange stares. "You have weird ideas" one person on the tram said. He wasn't aware that he had been speaking. He wondered whether all this was in his imagination anyway. He remembered that he had forgotten to pay for his ticket. He placed in the change to the beaurocratic mega salary pocket lining cash machine. He remembered how they got rid of the trammies, the conductors who added friendliness and character to transport. And the machine didn't give him change. Now there were transit police, who bashed him once or twice, and had him arrested.

He'd started to notice various new types of rage brewing in society. He had ticket machine rage. He thought of all the beaurocratic processes he would have to follow to get back his seventy cents. In his mind he kicked the machine, felt pleasure in the dints forming in the metal box. His mobile phone had been cut off from want of funds so he couldn't ring to complain. He thought of the clown computer engineers that made this thing. He wanted to kick it for real, with a baseball bat, chainsaw.

He knew this would create real consequences, maybe jail time. So he pondered in his mind more cunning schemes to reveal to all, the system's stupidity. He wanted peace, freedom, but when all his time was interupted, all his time spent troubled by debt, money, things controlling his every move, perceptions, corrupt money leaders. The street, the lane, the building, the lights and the minds of people. He hated labels, he noted the growth of anarchism, but this wasn't him. He just wanted to live, be free of the things that prevent his love, his value, he wanted purpose again.