So the age of science fiction has begun. When all we are left with is art, endlessly probing the minutiae of preferences, built up since early age through trademarked toys and video games, then graduating to ever-growing possessions until millions, no, billions, are not enough, not enough to have houses scattered through climate zones, not enough to own factories and the people in it (where would they go that is not controlled like a dictatorship by CXOs?), not enough to have all things, but also all the stuff that can be pushed into minds, like truth, like emotions, wants, while the conquests are fought by a few. I mean how American is Bezos, Musk, Trump? The turf is a 3D game in which people are NPCs that move from spot to spot doing whatever they were doing before, but now under hatred. You don't have to deliver on promises, only appease the rage that you fermented by pointing fingers. Because characters are strung together in a hierarchy and they're perfectly content if they can look down at whomever occupies a lower shelf and snicker. Meanwhile technology, instead of being widespread, is in the hands of a few wizards, looking down with glassy eyes and laser fingers at the jostling on the ladder, not one of them concerned with the fate of their experimental subjects, the tech increasingly spy-like, menacing and deadly. Eons ago a war was between armies, now it is between expendable human shields, the soldiers nowhere to be seen except in cowardice bunkers or suburbian training camps, as salesmen demonstrating products and electing clients. No longer will you find a beloved leader. Because the game is now to set one portion of the population against the next, the divisions, once plain as colours or mother tongues, now as ephemeral as art, as taste in pleasure, or invisible friends in the sky.

As science has turned its back to its true base (the natural word) and embraced the basest human desires (virtual and dark-web AI), the natural world is slowly packing its bag to get ready for a big one. While the attention in elsewhere and internal. Because ultimately it doesn't care for its little vermins. It has seen much and has always been a harsh judger of complacency.

And us, amidst the chaos, are tossed up and down and sideways, querelling for the best spot in this punctured zodiac going in circles: Republican then Democrat, then Royalist, then..


Jam24