When will who realize what is all their fault?

by illimitableoceanofinexplicability

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That’s what I asked myself this morning upon waking

Sitting up, as has been described numerous times in the past, and will be again and again, if man can continue on, numerous times in the future, bolt upright with those nine words springing from my lips

“When will who realize what is all their fault”?

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and immediately,

as if I had long prepared to answer this very question, as if I had been taken, as a toddler from my parents, whisked away to some mountaintop fortress run by Monks of an Order long forgotten, and when remembered tried by all to be destroyed, where I, and others like me were schooled in ancients arts and never allowed to speak, but only pass one another silently in the great stone halls, and in the endless gardens filled with genetically modified food stuffs recognizable to only the gruff goat like farmers who laughed in a way one would imagine the devil might, and threatened us constantly with beatings if we failed to pick enough of the odd beans that after a light grilling with a variety of spices was to be our supper, I answered

“I don’t know, probably never”.

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I dont

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Nonsense, that’s what that is. Nothing is what it has to do with those subjects we hold dear, the important ones, the ones that often times, inconveniently, wake us up at night, don’t let us sleep at all, worry us, really, unnecessarily, for there is nothing we can truly do about them other than, like an individual scrambling to protect his home from the rising waters of a rushing river, stack sandbags around, and as high as can be, hoping that it will be enough, and, maybe, just maybe, it will be. Despite all that there is no way for any of us to know until those waters come what will take place, for the future is unknowable as anyone, whether schooled by Monks in a mountaintop fortress or not, knows, and we, you and I, every single one of us, right now, are simply waiting for the water to come, some in silence, like the poor children forced to gather their supper, with raw and bleeding little hands, in the fields always under the watchful eye of those beastly farmers, or, like most you see at the shopping markets, or in the streets wandering to and fro, constantly flapping their gums about this, that and the other, never having been whisked, or otherwise taken from their parents, although such an event was most likely daily hoped for, until even a fully dedicated pacifist would, desperate for sweet silence, strangle them, the incessant jibber jabberers, until they collapsed lifeless upon the ground never to speak another word, pacing frantically back and forth, wiping our brow, scratching our ears, looking around nervously, checking the sandbags, helpless to do anything more than wait. But, you know this story well already, and as well know that I have, in the past, told it the same, more than twice, every time without change, in fact, always and forever, though, like those strange beans lightly grilled that the noiseless children, hungry not only for nourishment, but also for love, look forward to consuming day after day, you take this all in hungrily expecting something different, some revelation like those thought to be provided by the mountaintop Monks, only to discover that those beans which you have, with great labor, gathered, are, without the mysterious ‘variety of spices’, horribly tasteless.

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