Once Again

 


Once again, a crouching fighter in the midst of a jungle clearing, armed with everything from javelins to high-tech weapons, ready to fight.

"How dangerous is this guy?" one of the Watchers on the Watch asked. A new one he hadn't seen, or sensed, before.

His head was a jumble of contradictory thoughts: the officers and functionaries had so betrayed their country they gave their only begotten son. 

The malls were empty. The population was defeated. There was no self pride. And now, as the government's propaganda wing, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, worked hard to eradicate the Australian accent from its content and prepare a malleable population for an Islamic theocracy, all was well, all was not well, all was betrayed, not a democracy but a bureaucracy, not politicians but elected pimples on the surface of a festering infrastructure, invisible and for all to see, he knew, now, why the contradictions had seemed so intense.

Addiction is a spiritual war, he read somewhere, and in his vividly coloured dreams he drank and socialised in a crowded bar above a thick glass floor through which he could see the ice gang smoking meth and carousing in the basement below; their energy an evil drawing him down. 

And in a frightful, or frightening bureaucracy, a sobriety a strange echo, Brandy the name of a childhood dog, beloved, blessed art thou, he knew a saddling destiny, while above, beyond, flying high and tumbling down the mountain side, the enemies moved just beyond the clearing, and he swirled,  arched and crouched, not human, or only partially human, and knew that this was a war that could not be lost.

Otherwise he would never have been called. And never have known what lay beyond this realm, the invisible realm, those who governed in secret and in silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary. "They are only young," one of the ancients observed, on this planet already four billion years old.

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