I had survived, but only as a deteriorated version of myself. I was trying to make the best of it however, which is what we all have to do. We always have to make the best of it, don’t we? That’s the unspoken code and we all have to follow the unspoken code. We have to live by it. ‘What unspoken code do you live by?’ people often ask me, but I won’t say. I’ll never say. I act as if I don’t know what they’re talking about. A familiar expression of malign slothful stupidity creeps over my face – it’s my normal expression. It’s the mask I present to the world.
My mind makes an image of me and makes me be it. My mind constructs a deteriorated image of me and then in the twinkling of an eye I get trapped in it. That’s the Law of Deterioration. That’s the law no one ever speaks about. That’s the law we’re all too frightened to mention. A mask of slothful but nevertheless malign stupidity creeps slyly over my face, soon to take up permanent residence there. It’s my disguise but it’s also the truth. Lies will eventually become the truth down here in the Deteriorated Worlds – you just have to keep on repeating them.
We have no one to thank for our karma but ourselves, so it is said, and so on this account I have developed the habit of constantly thanking myself, wherever I go, when karma manifests. Nice one buddy, I tell myself, thanks for that. Thanks a lot. And then a bit later when more karma manifests I have further cause to thank myself, which I do. Hey thanks for that one too good buddy – you’ve certainly left me with some interesting karmic consequences to contend with. Thank you thank you thank you thank you, I say.
It’s important to make the best of things, as I have already said, and so I try not to complain too much. I try to keep a bright and breezy attitude in the face of brutal adversity – ‘it will be fine’ I tell everyone, ‘and if it isn’t – well that’s fine too’. There’s no sense in making a fuss after all, that’s what I always say. Down here in the Residual Worlds the Law of Deterioration speeds up, keen to get where it’s going – wherever that might be. The ticket collector, an elderly and somewhat cantankerous man, wonders around officiously checking tickets. He purses his lips and looks exasperated when the person he is harassing fails to produce one.
Down here in the Residual Worlds no one ever buys a ticket. We’re all in it for the free ride. We’re all going to where we going anyway, whether want to or not, and so the motivation simply isn’t there. What’s the point, we say rebelliously, gathering in small groups and muttering darkly. The mood of the crowd is turning ugly but there’s nothing anyone of us can do about it. We have only ourselves to blame. Special measures have been taken by the government but it’s too late for that now – our fate is already sealed.
On the television clown-like performers caper back and forth wearing silly clothes. They’re reading the news. They are telling jokes which none of us have the heart to laugh at. They weren’t funny jokes in the first place. Angry-faced men with small pig-like eyes lash out with their expensive gold-tipped canes – they’re old-school capitalists and they’re angry because their plans have all gone awry. They’re angry because their plans have backfired on them and their blind rage is making them lash out. It is making them lash out with pure undiluted malice, trying their best to hurt whoever they can. But can you blame them? Wouldn’t we be exactly the same if it was us?
