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Monday, March 29, 2004
I Might Be Wrong.
The varying "juvenile delinquents" of the world have a pact they must form; a visage they must don and accept. They must become Micheal Jacksons at the game of prejudice. They must buy special products which change their skin color; they must wear an oxygen mask that is forced onto them called isolation; they must wear a proctective suit called their minds. They must, in essence, become Chameleons: shape-changing, adapting, paranoid androids; beings which need the ability to be machine and perfect in what they are and do and what their appearance is, at least in the face of Those-Who-Are-Not-Named and are identified easily if one is blithe enough to see it.
For if those different are not different in a way that isn't different, and upholds the status quo, then they shall be pointed at as pretentious, pompous, and derided upon like pigs readying to be slaughtered. Like lambs, ready to be silenced.
There is a Clarice Starling in us all. She is the one who wants to save those silencing lambs, and noursish what is trying to be taken away.
There is a Hannibal Lecter in us all. He is the one who quid pro quos his way about, who is questioning and anaylizing simply by inutitive intellectual sleuthing.
We as cowards must die many times before our deaths. And we must be reborn on the hellish grounds of adaptation, impregnated to be what They want us to be when what we want to be isn't what They want us to be.
You slaves. How can you let Them do this?
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