impulse

I was with him and you were with her And we would never let our feelings interfere But there was a laugh shared between us both No words said, but I got it when I looked at you. An impulse…

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What if?

Moments glimpse down the road post virus, post nuclear madness.

A few pages from a story of what was and could be…

A brief if current world history to clarify if possible the current conundrum: After ‘The Changes’ in the United States, as the country had been called for over three hundred years, big changes happened around the end of the first fifty years into the 2000s. Massive social upheavals brought panic to every heart.

This was brought about by the global unraveling that the Coronavirus initiated, wiping out millions. It was never determined how or who hatched the monster. After the first several waves hit and the following variants, the news media announced, not really believing, that the scourge was past. This was against the wishes of the CDC. It was well into 2024 that the real devastation struck. Almost a billion perished. The music really stopped. Not even the mournful whines of privileged, drug addled western rock could be heard. What used to be considered third world countries simply went back to those pre civilized days. The jungle reclaimed it all.

The world was barely limping along now for thirty or so years until finally one day, the worst of the worst happened. The all-consuming nuclear conflagration that so many feared after the Second World War was set loose.

There was no going back. The moth tried crawling back into the perfect cocoon. After being born, an unforeseen flaw, its wings were too small. Human fingers, a curious child, touched the still evolving pretty cocoon hanging in the under shade of a leafy branch. As they say: all was perfection until man interfered. And now, the global cocoon had been jarred, unnaturally.

There was no going back.

We blew ourselves out of existence, well, out of what it had been prior to that day in 2045, Tuesday, 3:00 AM if you were in the Philadelphia area. What we had most feared, mans’ most destructive powers were unleashed. The nuclear nations unleashed hell upon all life.

In Latin America they said the rich nuclear nations had kicked the ultimate auto goal. But far worse than in a soccer game, no one won.

Post the early months of coronavirus, there were the ever more powerful viruses that followed the first warning sweeps by the Grim Reaper. Massive social upheavals and failing dictatorships suffering from massive doses of illusion of savior grandeur, unfortunately including those in power who had nervous fingers poised next to the nuclear buttons.

No one really knew, but some said it was the Eastern nations were first to rush to press all the buttons at their disposal, shrieking that they had always waited for this divine moment. Others claimed and proved, that the first launch was from France. Fingers pointed at Cheyenne Mountain because of a mountain flattening explosion there, some said, was a Russian bomb. Once everyone jumped in as a whole, all sides were certain that they were complying with some ancient karmic edict that had been spelled out since the dawn of time.

No doubt realizing milliseconds too late after, that the gravest of mistakes in human history had just been made.

Panic led to more panic and everybody else let fly the monster bombs. That’s it. Life ended as humans knew it. There were, of course, innumerous surprises, none good or bad depending on ones’ perspective or inclination.

‘Broken arrow! Broken arrow!’ Surviving pundits compared the raining missiles to the auto slaughter made infamous during the Viet Nam war. The radio call. ‘Broken arrow! Broken arrow! The last radio call by a dying group of combatants who were in the throes of being overrun. A self-annihilation assuring mutually assured destruction of the opposing forces.

It’s what happened on a global scale.

Fifty years after total destruction, which as it turned out did not snuff out life, did not bring on a hundred year winter, did not cause everyone to get cancer from radioactivity. Did people and animals and plant life suffer? Of course! But not in ways told us by the pre-war pundits.

Goes without saying that taking in the sun isn’t like it used to be, I’m guessing here.

Today, twenty minutes spent in the sun without a shirt on and you will end up in the emergency station as the skin literally scales off in blisters. In the past, this was not the case. This was in part thanks to the nuclear furnace humans unleashed upon themselves, rendering all useful governments around the globe with few exceptions utterly ineffectual.

Now, of course, with earth’s most recent occupiers, hope for free society and self- rule, carefully preserved and carried out by sometimes well intentioned, a tiny bit wise and sort of compassionate government, were now just a distant, bleak memory.

The proxies, fellow humans, who work for the alien visitors or the rounders because of their round form, forcibly educate all youth in ‘human development’ learning camps. It is said by many, even the churches in their current form, say that the aliens arrived because they saw the slaughter. They are here to save us from ourselves. Who could argue convincingly against this thinking? The aliens said that a disturbance in the balance of one planet can set off cataclysm throughout our star system.

One tenet drilled into young heads now is that humans are not designed to be ruling creatures. That in fact we are genetically formed in such a way that indicates we must obey, must follow orders, work for the group, and this way live content lives. Content and happy are oceans apart… Content means getting by, getting medical attention when needed, having food to keep hunger from chewing away at one’s insides. Happy means what was meant in the old US Declaration of Independence, the part saying: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

Happiness in a materialistic way could mean living in a mansion, owning a motor boat, and even owning a second place on a sunny beach somewhere. Happiness, most importantly, was the freedom to do as you pleased so long as you hurt no one, the freedom to pursue your beliefs; to be part of a thriving community. Humans lost the freedom of decision to determine such things after the nuclear disaster.

To be content is what the rounders decree through the human proxies. Proxies say what life should be and will be like… Of course, the proxies live their lives in protected and privileged bubbles in communities sprinkled all around the globe. Heavily protected environs that include vast park systems, waterways, and coastal strips lined with mansions, and what would be expected from a community of people who live the materially abundant life.

Again, these are the proxies and these are the ones who do the bidding for the rounders who, of course, live up in their silent, floating ships. If ever there was a class contradiction, the lives of the proxies along with their ruined children are the worst possible example.

Today there are other things far more pressing, and that which approximates an effort by the insurgency, so called freedom fighters at preserving democracy, decency and compassion is usually promoted with a burst of a machine gun, old weaponry. Yes. Not only plentiful, the old weapons are immune to any form of high tech interference, IE: an electric impulse will not impede the functioning of an old Colt.45.

I, along with countless other revolutionaries, are those who wholeheartedly believe we need to regain our old freedoms. It goes back to that fundamental thinking that says we, as humans, were designed to obtain maximum benefit from our existence on the planet.

The fly in the ointment in this theory is that, in fact, we are not native to this planet. Rather, we are aliens dumped here from an ancient past or we formed in an alien visitors’ laboratory, yes in the dish, now lost in the distant past… Oh come now, postulating here. No one really knows. Take your pick.

But sticking with the argument for the moment that we really are from here originated here from some inexplicable gathering of stuff in our particular hidden jungle puddle of original mix, the unique goo in the mud which was to become human kind. We are constructed, it seems, in such a fashion so that we humans fit perfectly, healthily into, or on this planet. And yet, in fact, we don’t harmonize well. It is an understood truism now in most think tanks, now that life here will never become an idyllic Shangri-La. That it’s an impossibility for thousands of reasons. If you work at it, many arguments can be made in support of this notion.

Who’s to say not? For some, it’s up to us humans to decide this. So maybe, just maybe, we are someone’s experiment. Did this someone have a healthy dose of humor?

Or. Again. Or perhaps we are an attempt at preserving intelligence from a planet of a dying star system? Why not? Who can really say? You and I can’t. We can opine, some seemingly smarter and much better read than others, you know, fancier words thrown in, more test tubes used in the tests, more calculations… But opining it remains, no known correct conclusions. What are correct conclusions anyway?

Happy days. Yeah right. You’ve lived your life convincing yourself of the fact that you’re as happy as a clam buddy. Only fooling yourself, or am I fooling myself, no I think not. Well maybe, I can’t imagine a worse spot than I find myself in at this moment.

How will we fix this? This looks like the kind of bind which says that the odds of getting out of this one are pretty slim. It leads back to that long fought battle of free versus not free. For now, all we have is each other, our aging weapons and the will to rid ourselves of the rounders.

Walking down the dusty road, the wind caresses soothingly, its freshness tells me yet again that there is hope for where we are going. A self- prescribed promise born from years of fighting the rounders and the proxies, their human enforcers.

The warriors’ code, fight on! A necessary measure of good humor is critical. Once you know where we’re headed, you’ll not question my sanity as much. Were it not for our umbrella like coverings we’d roast as we found our way down the road. This long column of men and women kicking up dust on our way very possibly to our end. But it’s a known fact that prisoners are not as a rule executed. Hard labor can be almost as bad. But death is death, so final.

The ones captured, if healthy, have the best chance of remaining alive. If you are crippled, the sickly odds are you will disappear in another line, never to be seen again.

How much does it take for a woman or a man to finally say enough is enough and just stop, lay down and let them come with the hurt shocks and kill rays. Let them come. I’m tired of running. No one ever promised me a rose garden like the ancient, American song went, so true. To think that today these fellow humans with the shock weapons work for the rounders.

Strangely, history repeats itself.

Conquerors are always guaranteed their stooges, proxies, fellow humans who choose not to fight against them and are recruited to keep us rebels in line. Why not simply erase us? Just as simply, we are needed for hard and, in this case, intricate labor.

Things haven’t always been as they are now, of course…

The dusty column continues towards its objective, a huge power source station that draws super- heated gasses from within the earth, funneling to ships overhead. We fight day by day. Freedom as imperfect as it may be is our cause to live and reason to keep breathing.

And as has been said so many times and proven out: history repeats itself. History shall, repeat itself.

impulse

What if?

Moments glimpse down the road post virus, post nuclear madness.

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