Sometimes we all get fatigued and can’t be bothered stepping
down into the muddy cesspit of humanity. Together in groups or alone humans beings become identical when you weigh up how they live. I believe it was Warhol who said whether your rich or poor Coca-Cola taste equally as good to you. So the woman flaunting her green diamonds is really no different to the poor unwashed beggar sleeping in a bus shelter. Both eat, drink, sleep and have unfulfilled wishes. It's the same with the sunburnt men bickering drunk while smoking expensive cigars in late afternoon. All the fat self-confessed know it alls have absolutely no idea why they're alive, each one knowing far less than the next.
From a view educated by common sense, almost everyone seems to have the same generic facial expression photocopied across their faces. To hell with these people, impostors, fakes. What is the point of their stupid vacuous lives, like worn plasticine drooping from a rented ceiling they're destined to die like plants left out in the sun to long. No matter how much money they amass or alcohol they consume in time they will perish.
In this super-city of millions, Auckland, the sense of irony is that one can still struggle to find someone to dance or sing with even hold a meaningful conversation. Long gone are the days where courtship flared like lightning over a shared mulled wine in a cheap restaurant. I wouldn't go so far as to say that cerebral conversation was dead. But I would say it was dying, on life support, struggling to pay the bills with the doctors santized finger looming precariously over the white hospital switch.
Drones, zombies, even spitting cobras are transformed into arrogant office workers in the mid-day sun. With their cynical spreadsheets and exotic cups of coffee they mull about as indistinguishable as over-sized ants crushed under the obscene weight of society. The last remnants of their fractured self is liquified by their bosses who control like Hollywood directors every action of there bad acting. Like caged animals bankers, accountants, lawyers all wander back and forth slowly breaking into pieces. Their brains reduced to pink putty ooze out across their new clear desks. The overworked zombies, men and woman alike they all seem so unloved, as if they were tortured in Guantonmo bay with a continuous loop of Eminem songs. After work the all simply fall apart like children's toys discarded and thrown into trash cans everywhere in the CBD. There human emotions bought for a pittance and manufactured and sold back to them in the form of flatscreen tv's with a Netflix's subscription not included.
I still didn’t want a microscopic thing to do with these Camusian strangers. Even if they were destined to become the unfeeling leaders of our corrupt draconian world. These proletariat lords lingered heavy over me like a symphony of crying rain clouds reducing the world to grey, and yet like soggy unread newspapers the zombies were remarkably beautiful, even necessary to justify the whole of human achievement. For amongst the heaving madness of human society with all its mindless depravity one could still find glass shards of splinted miracles. Time and time again all throughout history a rainbow unicorn or a sharpened needle would be haphazardly tossed into the infinity of space. By the hand of beauty the oldest living Goddes who still breathed in deeply the smoggy air of our blue planet. She alone was truly Unbroken, love, gave life too all and sustained the growing nightmare of life in concrete deserts. Amongst the unfeeling and pitiful human's some rare souls still existed like love propelled asteroid's crashing landing into barren lives with the power to electrify reality.