Statistical Sanity


A factory for manufacturing dead bodies, turning living, breathing, laughing into dead lump of meat. I used to work here – with everyone else.

Why do people die? Because of their stupidity wrapped in misery, illiteracy, illness, poverty and hunger?

Dogs cry on the street outside. Two were killed this morning. They too will die if they are not smart enough.
Sound of train running over rail tracks, metal on metal, in winter, clear, carrying more living lump, meat on meat.

Just waiting to die.

Everyone, even the ones who think they are above all, beyond reach, savouring their accomplishment of mass destruction, will be brought down with rest of the dogs and turned cold.

Eyes unstirring. Some in horror. Some calm. Some peaceful. Some tearful. But none empty.

The hordes that remained silent all their lives shout once they are dead, through their eyes. I can hear their echoes in this silence. Dead are more valuable then the living lump. Dead are not afraid, they are not corrupt, they are not.

I kept waiting, looked forward towards the future in an attempt to escape this hell of reality, this present us.

Everyone around me. Puppets. Dog-puppet, filth-puppet, king-puppet. Hung by the same ropes that will sooner or later stifle them.

I used to think showing people the truth, giving them knowledge, waking them from their unconsciousness would help them. Stones were thrown at me, they called me crazy. And they are dying now…one-by-one…

I am neither sad nor sorry. No. I am not enjoying it either. I always knew this would happen.
I always knew they were dead already. Even when I sat among them, sharing, laughing, living. They were dead then, they are dead now. But they are of more value now than they were alive.

I do not wish to change anything. Even if I could.
What will I change?
Who will I fight?

They will fight themselves, kill themselves, end themselves.

Everything we know will end in a self-destructive manner, just like a matchstick burns itself up completely, once it has served its purpose. And nothing will rise from the ashes. Nothing at all.

When all this ends, this self-destructive-burning, I will step outside. I won’t  laugh or smile or cry or moan. I will just march around the corpses, look into their questioning eyes and whisper, “I told you.”