If rescue, comes with a stipulation I cannot bring my books…. books and tools are all I got left of my dad. All my kids will ever know of their grampa. Take my wife, kids, and the books. Leave me and the tools.
I mean, of those three things, pragmatically speaking, I am the least useful to their future.
The truth hurts. It hurts less if it is not a surprise.
I am a dead man. Dead man walking. Arizona has killed me, be it slow or quick. I guess I knew it would. I am not special, killing is what deserts do. Soul first. It makes it easier to participate in your own demise, I guess.
why couldnt I just be ignorant? I would be so much happier. Just put on my my maga hat, lie my ass off to get a job in the mines, and make big bucks while I rape the planet. No biggie. It’s just…. just my soul. Just the souls, of my children, whom I will curse with a more god forsaken planet than I was left with.
It is one thing to be ignorant, and make the wrong choice. It is far worse, when you know better. So being smarter, is only good, for punishment. Crumble and give in, and your doubly to blame.
But why should I think I dont deserve double the blame? Why am I special? Perhaps, I am abhorrant. An embarassment for god to call his creation. Maybe, those white supremacists were right. Us mud people have no souls. We are even worse than black folk, or Mexicans. I was told, my type was far worse, cuz I might pass, and befoul the blood lines of white folk. Quite literally, I was poison.
Well fuck. If reality, is false, fake news. If cops never really do anything bad. If Putin really is America’s friend. If antifa really is some grand communist conspiracy, then maybe, as a mud person, maybe I really do, have no soul. Does starting to question it, make me crazy? or Sane?
I guess I should just roll up snug in my confederate flag, watch some violent porn with an angry white dude raping and brutalizing everything in sight. Then close my eyes, resting comfortably in the knowledge that Father Trump thinks we are great, and drift off to sleep, kissing my soul good bye.
Maybe I am already dead. This is just my hell, a constant loop of me, failing my family. poisoning all I touch. That they, are actually let off the hook, will be fine, unburdened of me. But my hell, is thinking I am alive and continuing to make them suffer.