I stand, really nothing more as a statue or a lost relic of what I once stood for, what we once stood for. Everything from it is gone and crumbled. The odd, reminiscent, placid air around me fuels my ennui. I let my arms fall, my mind descend. I am a child of a dead society, crawling upon the jagged remains of my predecessors.
This knowledge has been present to me for quite some time. However, it became painfully obvious in an evening past.
We sat, laughing, hyperactive giddy eager children. It could have been the high off of exhaustion, or the six dollars worth of coffee I had in my system. The group, the circle, the clan, the cult, --whatever you wish to call it-- assembled once again. I sat next to a man I have blatantly, here and in the non-cyber polis, called my arch enemy, and broke bread. We sat making lewd jokes, bitching, anything we wanted. We were once again the little cult of bat-geeks. It was the same as it was when we were in power.
Except it wasn't. It wasn't the same at all. It was just a hollow shell.
All of us knew this was a exercise of comfort. We all wanted to bask in the glow of familiarity. We wanted to avoid the sharp, contrasting hopeless wasteland that we now exist in. It's all become so hard that all of our past's seem like a lie. So we sat like old war hero's, recalling and lamenting fables of "the good 'ol days." At the moment, I think it's all any of us could do to stay sane.
So we spend nights like this, 'till it's four o?clock in the morning and we realize we all have to go to work the next day. We slip silently into our beds, knowing that we are just shadows. It's winter, and it beckons us. It beckons us to fade quietly into the night. To become the dusty statures of our standards, obelisks of dead objects in an ivy covered garden of rust.