American Imperialism

If life were a story book, one could escape to another age. Indeed if life were a book of essays, the only ones that read us will be that of another far older age. Instead one slides between the cracks, worshiping techno gurus as a more worthy and noble sage. I indulge in my current fantasies with a lady that refers to herself as a technocrat.

That highlights some very important facts about me, on one hand I am compelled to write. Then turn off the lamp, lay down on my futon, and slight till the end of the night. The crazy old cat lady finally stopped walking in circles around the room, not sure where to go. She rests. When you wander in this town, that plays like a city, you bundle up under the covers, hoping those people wont be bothered if you're witty. Indeed, for some, to make jokes is a coping mechanism. But to cope with what, I shall save for another time while I hold this dime, as my life in true randomness, switches between heads or tails. It's difficult to describe that feeling, feeling like one were born out time. We live in an era where the US is gradually losing their influence in the world, like the empires of old. Yet the fall of older empires would not be such a great fall.

Within this framework of life, beyond the real life of constant middle eastern strife, there are famille who watch TV living their lives with no idea of what goes on outside their cultural context. The older empires were paved with streets of gold, yet here in the culturally divided states of America, we live in a world paved by older fallen empires crushed by unmanned aerial vehicles, causing more death and decay never before seen by the ancient masters. This is not a dystopic novel, but our own reality we live in. And I suffocate into the void, falling. Dissentigrating, longing. Hoping to escape from the prison of my flesh. The prison of a gender that does not belong to my brain. I am fat, and I'm getting older.

Many in other countries could not even conceive of living to my ripe old age, yet in America I am a quarter century plus three years. In other countries, people have bloody hands touch what remains of their window, the imprints of blood mixed with sweat from their eating utensils. While he we have clean scalpels, to do a task like take out our tonsils. Blood of life, the water within our own bodies, reserved or wasted not for any wrong doing on those who live in the middle east, but merely for being in the shadow of American imperial troopers, stomping on faces with black boot steps.

The American military calls this freedom, yet what freedom are the people without ties to terrorist organizations gaining by having their country invaded by men in strange golden armor and stealth fighters. I was watching Youtube that mentioned one specific attack where there are rumored to be up to a million casualties in a Moab strike. Consider the fact that the total death toll of Stalin's reign was around fifteen million people. Try and factor this into, and consider how you get them we in the West consider to be basic. I've done as much as I can to unplug from the propaganda framework of my own reality, I still have much simplification of my own lifetime, while I seek to read anarchist non-fiction books. Yet my own attention span in waning like the moon.

I suppose I shall see after I read this book.

It is a Spy novel.





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