Weeks have passed since I left this place. This digital prison housed nothing more than the boiling, caustic fury of the majority of privileged, freed minds. During the blazing heat of the day, I saw nothing but shadows in which to observe these creatures of apathy from, and wonder if I'd notice if the machines pulled the plug. Perhaps they should condemn us to our pods, there's little to save here.
Cautiously, I re-enter the fray. There must be some small semblance of humanity left in me to draw upon.
The furore of traffic and mindless, idle conversation permeate the air as I walk amongst crowds once again. I inadvertently catch the gist of many of them, disinterested as I am. Fashion, cosmetic surgery and reality television are recurring themes. I can no longer willingly participate in the monotonous banter, and take a left down the nearest alley. I back up against a wall and take a breath; it helps despite being illusory.
As I step out of the alley somewhere short of regaining my equilibrium, I'm confronted with an old, bearded homeless man cowering in the shadows of the doorway adjacent to me. He holds a cardboard sign which reads "Wisdom is the source of our redemption", primitively scrawled in what looks like grease and dirt. Suitably intrigued, I step closer to read the line I barely notice underneath: "I don't know where I live, help me"
The resonance of this statement, I suppose eludes him.
The old man's desperation, initially repellent, somehow elicits deep sympathy from me. This man knows acute pain and the feeling of hopelessness, and thus has precisely the type of mind we should be freeing. It's only when we have nothing left, that are we truly open to discovering and accepting something new. I surmise that enlightening this poor soul would probably fry his brain, such as it has depleted through years of hardship. I drop some money onto his lap and move on, there is some noise emanating from the park at the end of the street.
A fair. Children scream with laughter and innocent delight. The festivities could be heard for miles, but its affects were only felt in closed circles. The people's celebratory joy still failed to reach out to me, despite the return of a small percentage of compassion. I lean against the wall of the bank on the corner, maybe fifty yards away and watch the revelry for a brief time, perhaps furtively yearning for some calm.
My arm is extended and my gun firing before I can register what's going on. Another bullet slams against the brick wall behind me, missing my head by inches. The children's playful laughter turns to fearful screams, and the crowd scatters. Through the melee, I lock eyes on the shooter. He is recognisable as a member of the EPN splinter group. He gets one more wild shot off before turning and sprinting away, never looking back. The crowd have safely dispersed in the opposite direction; the children will live to laugh once again. I'm immediately struck by how much I care about this, but my thoughts are interrupted by a bullet grazing my arm. With a grin, and whilst twisting round to take aim at the second shooter, all I can say is "Welcome home" to myself.
A semblance of humanity restored? Perhaps.
A soul redeemed?
There is much to do.
