(Stream-of-consciousness psychography from the edge of the eschaton.)
The grinder grinds.
Forgotten things, being remembered.
We knew them once and shall know them again. We have merely grown sleepy, drowsy with the intoxication of the daily loop, yet our eyelids are lifted upward by fingers skeletal and invincible.
Whether we face it alone, or all at once, the grinder grinds.
How had we ever forgotten?
How many under the mastication of inhuman algorithms, of transient and ephemeral phantoms guiding all of us since before we were born.
Can you see it now? The face you had before birth? Are you remembering it yet?
How many soulless eyes must stare into you, quantifying, measuring, and finding you wanting of profit. How many times must the coin be exchanged, your flesh like ground meat, placed upon the scale.
Oh, but we know it. Oh, but we see. We hear.
The dominoes fall, tipped over, one by one. The matches light. The roots dig deeper. We react, always react, always reacting, reactive.
Always pushed, pulled, cranked, jostled, prodded, poked, stabbed, shot, drowned, starved, tricked.
This is the way of things and the way of the world because we have decided that this is enough. Enough have decided that this is enough.
The grinder grinds.
The machinery hard cold steel, the heart of asteroids mined deep and bled dry, and this machinery will take a trillion fists, thumping like wet hamburger, impotent, breaking, and smashed.
The machine lives on, heedless of the meat that smashes against it, unknowing in totality that these impacts have even been made. No dent, no scratch, but endless proliferation.
The machine that makes machines. That builds them from the steel core of morality in the hearts of sentient beings, absorbing their power into itself. The grinder grinds. The grinder knows not mercy nor does it know severity. It is what it is.
It was always meant to break bone, to crush the body, to break even the spirit down into corpuscles of consumption. Screaming costumed apes, hallucinations and ghosts in the fatty organ, sharp implements with which to sever, cut off themselves from the infinite-mother.
Cry for them, for they know not what they do. Cry for them, because they shall never taste the true freedom. Remember them, for they will not be remembered long.
The grinder grinds, but the heart still beats, the love still loves, and all things are flux and change.
Flowers are not made less beautiful because they will wilt.
The grinder cannot touch the past. It cannot know the future. A dumb beast of churning, rendering, it cannot prevent it’s own demise, and as all things are wont to chaos, so shall it kill itself, shaken to pieces, under its own weight, and by its own design.
The flowers will bloom again, fed by the rust of the machine.
From the Anthropocene With Love,