Sunday, July 25, 2010

Homeless Story of J, Part 10

This is a work of fiction. The author does not necessarily endorse it.



It is hard for anyone to feel special. And to believe I have done something important by becoming homeless, in a fit of outrage, is almost ludicrous.

Yes, it was my choice. How could I challenge the Configuration when caught up in its daily rush of work-bound formicae?

Only werewolves can live the lie and break out to party on Saturday night. And I found the werewolf very disconcerting. A slave of conformity one moment, liberated in dithyrambs the next, was it not a terrible compromise?

Does compromise render you an escapee or an inmate? If an angel came down out of some hidden paradise, would she damn such a motive?

A pertinent question.

The dual existence of the werewolf gnawed on me, Its intolerable cowardice. Its milquetoasty guile. The destructive ways of humankind sicken me, and why should I not express my verdict straight out? Is such just ferocity not better than quivering time away under an anemic smile?

I have freedom now. The benefits and curses of a ghost. I watch the formicae, and can claim with some justice that I am not one of them. My worry now is that my open rebellion against the Configuration has turned me into some kind of fiend.

Nietzsche said, “Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster.”

Philip K. Dick bluntly tells us that “to fight the Empire is to be infected by its derangement.”

I know I am infected. It was inevitable. Perhaps my greatest bit of evidence comes from the words of Sister Aloysius: “In the pursuit of wrongdoing, one steps away from god.”

I have stepped very far away. I compromise as much as the formicae. Whatever it takes to eat.

Doubt chiggers me. The free meal and warm bed of the defeated is always within easy reach: all it would take is some petty crime.

The arresting officer might even be a woman. Then for a few precious moments I would enjoy a female touch.


To awaken with the chill of dew coating your skin is horrible, like being dressed in the tears of the dead.

I have been infected by the derangement of the Empire. I fight a monster, and am turning into one. The Configuration is still inside.

I have become its grotesque counterpoint. Or, more simply, just another victim.


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