The Mysterious Edge

 


He missed the Big City. It was quiet here. The drone of a nearby highway. "He's killing us," they said, and he didn't know whether they were good or evil, malevolent or kind, the ancients or acquired parasites. He just didn't know.

"He just can't help himself," one of the Watchers on the Watch observed, and that was it, we had come full circle. Mob behaviour. Fear. Defensive operatives. A deceitful government. Lie built upon lie. They were losing control of the narrative, and they knew it. 

Inside that great silence that was Australia tensions were rising, and disillusionment spread. But here it was a different story. The garden began to take shape. He took form within himself. They took form. The work began. The cycle began. And as for the country, he could only theorise, they were so far away.

He had published the book Terror in Australia: Workers' Paradise Lost a decade before. It had promptly sunk with barely a trace. But here we were, again. 

It had been at the height of the "Death Cult" anti-Islamic State mania which had been utilised as a desperate ploy by the nation's conservative politicians to wedge the left, and had ultimately disappeared due to overuse and a bureaucracy that placed the cult of multiculturalism above social and ethnic cohesion.

Old Alex, raising his head above the onslaught of attacks, of disillusion and abnegation, "we are flawed vessels" he found himself saying, was appearing once again in a quagmire of not just of disillusion but of contradictions, the good path, the broken path, the frequent call to arms, the pleasure of a moment and a place, the cold beauty of the South Coast and its slow growing temperate rain forests, the most southern in the country. 

And others said it too: it's so beautiful, this part of Australia. I'm constantly surprised as I round a corner. How ravishing it is. And so we face another storm. We who ride again.

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