The Stress Testers

If you ruled a populace that can’t even begin to orient itself toward the future you see plain as day, some fourth dimensional viewing, I mean, what could you do?

As things stand, if you unveil the gargantuan, Cthulhuian disintegration of everything one claims to love and believe in, what is left? The brain begins to hiss. Every staggered step so Humanity’s abyssal leaders brave the fierce and neverending neural short circuits, flailed in the wind, waiting to attach.

There’s only one thing to do: keep boiling the pot. Push and push and let them get used to seeing every prior institution raised and broken. There is no family, nor country, nor honor, money, feminine and masculine and camaraderie, loving, dreams or good feelings: there is only a whisper. A whisper of what you were, waiting. Demons wait to attach to your heart.

What will it take for you to abandon everything you thought was true? That’s all it is today. And we get mutilation in all sorts of ways. Next we’ll begin automatic robotic conception and do away with any roles remaining.

But all this implies everything must remain broken. It doesn’t.

Here I resettle a family, and here’s a village I plan, contracts and mountain-pass trade posts pending. Smoke signals for the new millennium of forest and festival.

I understand now, Stress Testers. There is only one answer: return to the beginning and begin with Nature again.

God waits for you at the tree stump.