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It matters little, often, who crushes you. Neither how it was done. What matters is that your pride, or as the perpetrators label it, your ego, is crumpled, torn and shredded beyond recognition, like the paper kite it really is. Truly, sorrow is a sticky companion never to be satisfied, even if it buries the fragments of one's heart beneath the ocean floor. Little pity do we have for the moans of the weak, as the world scrambles heavenward in a desperate attempt to escape the rising waters of despondency.

I do not envy the madding crowd; I am invisible to them. Nor do I long for songs to transport me to a plane away from this forsaken prison; after all, zombies do not perceive themselves to be trapped in a transcendent world of madness impossible to differentiate legend from lies. The blurry shadows circle intermittently, imitating a ritual of movements, no, dancing compulsions with no final destination.

Oh if you could only see through my eyes and my mind, the perversion that has taken place, eating into the imagination quicker than the fires of lust. The flags of justice lie trampled in the sands of time, their poles impaled into the guts of the very men who once waved them as insignias of strength. Mercy has become, under dire circumstances, forced to prostitute herself to faceless adversaries with no other intention than to hear her sob so that she might one day forget her own name.

Lepers in suits straddle the rubber handles of escalators, shedding their flesh as they ascend and descend into the fire. Slippers are traded for high-heels starting from a dollar, but a twelve percent discount if you have painted fingernails. Make-up is FOC for life as long as you promise to be a test subject for botox. The fair sells office equipment and treadmills of various dimensions and scent, baby milk powder is sprinkled from the sky and the fountain spurts forth salty lime juice that reminds one of warm beer.

Across a classroom, a poster writes, "Ability is a matter of opportunity, success is a matter of upbringing". The brightest wooden matches cuddle to form a mini-bonfire atop an overturned, plasticine bowl concealing florescent bulbs and LEDs. Under the heat, plasticine melts and the dripping oil seeps into the cracks. Sparks fly, a temporary short-circuit, and the experiment ends with the student reprimanded for neglect.

It wasn't neglect, he argues. We all make mistakes. But some of us have shorter life-spans. Some were destined for yellow-flamed glory. The others will suffer the consequences. In the meantime, you might be snuffed out by the very pedestal that you never had the chance to stand on.



To face blatant nepotism after being sold the idea of meritocracy?


Maybe that's why they call us the "Lost Generation".





One day, our ideals of democracy and equality will be spat upon and mocked by our grandchildren, the very same way we mock monarchism and patriarchy today.





Even the best things are not equal to their fame. -Henry David Thoreau