I don’t know what I am, but I know that we are the same. We can sniff each other out. I know that you can feel it too. We are different from the others. I don’t know why, and neither do you, none of us do. We are a rare breed, my friend. The world doesn’t even know we exist, it’s our little secret.
It is a secret so overwhelmingly colossal, and yet so painfully insignificant. So clear, and yet so vague. Our very existence is a mystery unto ourselves.
Sometimes, I think we have an ancestry that dates back far into prehistory. Something beyond human. Early on in our evolution, a poisonous –or perhaps- demonic element infected the gene pool. A virus infecting a foetus in utero, fusing with it, creating a new breed. Other times, I think we nothing more than an anomaly. A set of simultaneous, spontaneous mutations. That’s what made us what we are. Or perhaps we are the barely conscious drones, vessels, minions of a higher being, waiting to be summoned and put to action. It cannot be truly divined what we are, or what our purpose is. Our existence is a maelstrom of insensibility.
We are so few in number. Sometimes, I see one of us on the bus. We exchange glances, speaking in a language nobody else can hear, but never ever interacting. Last week, I saw one of us walking through the underpass late at night, bowed head, listless eyes and shuffling feet. Mutually sensing the presence of one another, we raised our heads and our eyes met briefly, before bowing our heads once more and continuing on our individual journeys. For a moment, something rumbled within me to speak, in the solitude of the underpass, to my distant brethren. To speak freely, and engage in discourse only we could understand. But a paralyzing fear gripped me, and I shuffled onwards without a word.
People see us as human -that is- if they even notice us at all. Some of us work jobs, others live in the streets. Some of us have homes, and others don’t even have birth certificates. A languid existence is all we have, slipping beneath the waves of social obscurity, living and dying with minimal interaction with others.
At night, we wander the streets, skulking through the darkest places, searching but never finding. Sometimes, we hear the call, and from all the darkest corners of the night, we creep and crawl to the spot to which we are all drawn. Pheromones, secreting from the ground, like an ethereal fountain of energy to which we are all drawn. Separate, individual, but as one unit, we can form a collective consciousness, and for one night, we can believe that we are part of something bigger than ourselves. But it all falls away.
Who whispers to us? To creep and meet in these vile, hidden places. An abandoned mortuary, the floor still wet with embalming fluids, and the secretions of the long-time dead. X-rays of dead babies stuffed into a rusting filing cabinet. Who called us here? How did we all know to come here tonight? That is our curse, we live unnoticed, slipping through the net, our inner network remains invisible. But worse, we don’t know what we are, what is our purpose? Why do we hide?
At these congregations, nothing changes. Our horde shuffles about in the dark, mumbling incoherently, barely taking notice of the others. Heavy arms, hung heads, shuffling feet. Guttural mutterings of an unintelligible, ancient tongue. These meetings have no beginning, no end, no purpose. They fall away just as they fall together.
Something has to be done. As a horde we can be strong. Our rhizome consciousness brings us together, but where is our leader? Our deity leaves us, confused, desperate, cold and alone.
It ends tonight, my friend. We shall have purpose. We have escaped detection for so long. Let us rise from beneath the waves of obscurity to break the ethereal bonds of our own oppression. We are one unit; we are one mind; we are one body.
So this is my call, to all of you who will hear it;
Join the revolution.
© JC Axe 2014.