A Cup of Conversation – July 2020

George Orwell knew. Everyone else was highly entertained or at least amused but not George. He tried to tell us. Some were listening. Most were not. Now they are. George was a lone voice in the wilderness. His words now haunt us…at least half of us, hopefully more. The other half are drooling in anticipation of the unthinkingly possible but will be shockingly disappointed like the surly, spoiled adolescent chomping at the bit to be free of those stupid, oppressive know-nothing parents. They’ll be giddy with false joy right up to the point the debit card doesn’t fund anymore and hunger begins to grin. This isn’t the way it was supposed to go, they will mutter. Why would my heroes in academia mislead me to think utopia was right around the corner? Why would they lie to me? I forsook everything to believe them. Now I’m broke, indebted and sleeping on couches, mooching off whoever will let me. I hate this oppressive world, hate those not thinking like me; not hiring me. I hate this oppressive, stifling nation. I deserve better. I’m owed more. The whole world is hateful say the haters.

Someone once said man was born with a hole in his heart and will always feel emptiness until that hole is filled. Man tries to fill that hole with materialism or sensualism or ideology but nothing satisfies. The void drives him to extremes and the extremes drive the familiar away. Loneliness is now a constant companion yet he remains alone amongst the multitudes of hidden faces. He craves oneness, yearns for meaning and is desperate to belong to something, anything. The disillusioned has become prey, vulnerable to the merciless, overwhelming Monster.

Ominous storm clouds are on the horizon like tyrants, sucking up man’s perverse weakness, his inhumanities, hypocrisies, deceptions for an entire generation. Darkness is about to unleash a torrent of filthy, acidic, waterless rain upon the heads of the selfishly silent and the thankless, noisy, indulged children of prosperity.

“It’s not too late,” George is screaming, agonizing from the grave but again no one hears. Insanity of clarity in twistedness rolls him over and over. The worms and rottenness of death constrain him until silence returns.

It begins.