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One might say…….

The Devil

For the first time in what feels an age, find beneath the tatters of a first draft.  Bound to each other with the vague gum of the mind.  This mind of mine.  ’tis far from complete, yet is replete enough to give outline to what I intend it to become.

In the case that you live in a vacuum of commercial media, and life without engaged thought, you may prefer to click upon the picture above to avoid the daunting prospect of having to read.

Hamish, immersed within not the ‘Cone of Silence’, rather the ‘Cone of cynicism’.  I believe it the weather that is cause.

One might say…….

‘tis oft recorded that one might say “‘tis the thrill of the chase that outstrips the conquest of the quarry”.  One might say that “conquest over the quarry far surpasses the chase”.  Both are emotive, subjective truths without a grain of fact to be found amongst the flotsam or scum upon the festering pond of the ignorant. 

Upon personal speculation, I say “‘tis neither”.  Not chase, not quarry; more the plan, and remorseless objectivity of the event.  Firstly disproved, then what ever remains is fact.  To strip destiny of all of her finery, to thrust fate upon a predestined pedestal is not the game of the knave, but rather of those beyond the realm of men.

By these utterances of observation above, I refer to something of consequence of such largess as to render all that may be taken as ‘personal’ as incidental.  That all, whilst taken in the collective form, to be something of a purer, cultivated, even civil consequence; perhaps.  Oh it is not of the likes of warring nations, nor the decimation of economies I refer.  No, no, and quite far from it.  Neither is it the desire for anarchy, politics’ nor control of men.  Man?

Distil this, filter this.  Remove the clay from the pan, observe the purest of shimmering flecks that remain.  This is the plan.  This is the much sought ‘quick’ that is the centre of all.

Yet why, why such endeavours? Why?  The enlightenment of self? Nourishment for the soul?  No, for that would be ‘conquest’, and conquest is abhorrent to me; ‘pursuit’, an equally vile corruption.  Again, these petty trinkets are fit for nothing more than the lowest of the low.  Those deemed unclean, regardless the frock, airs, heirs, and graces such pathetic minions adorn.  No, it is the plan.

Ϟ

My name is of no consequence; how I occupy my days outwardly is without relevance here.  ‘tis just ‘the plan’.  Any plan really, so long as ‘tis I that is the plans creator; for it is the plan that is the beginning middle and end of all.

Who forms the how and why of the pursuit; I care not.  The result of the conquest; I care less.  It is the power derived from the plan that is all.  Something as simple as the roll of the dice, the venom of the snake.  That is the plan.

Yet the plan needs an inspiration, some may say a muse, beguiling or not.

Today, my plan is thus.  The removal of the white man from existence both now, and all traces thereof in history.  All history; oral and recorded.  Nothing in science or invention is to remain.

Ϟ

The plan, in progress, will bring me to my pursuers.  Those deities’ deigned to live and squabble in boredom, the boredom of the God’s.  As I insinuate myself among them, whispering from ear to infallible ear the idea of the plan.  The spark of the divine is something of a wonder to behold.  An excuse to cast the dust of millennia from shoulders of the mighty, the all forgotten and unforgiving, unleashes a ripple of ineffable interest, giving succulent excuse for a return to fury and power.  One might say a reason to exist again in the heavens, hells, and all that lays between.

Ϟ

‘tis here I expand upon the plan. 

My seat is to the left of ‘Death’, she is knitting and telling her fox terrier ‘Mr. Darcy’ to sit down and behave; ‘there’s a good dog’.  Opposite me is ‘War’ with her hair in curlers and drinking white tea strong enough to dissolve heavy metals in.  To my right is the garishly attired ‘Pestilence’; she is asking ‘Famine’, cigarette paper in hand, “four letters down, second letter is an ‘R’, the clue is ‘amphibian pond dweller….”

They all love the idea of a good plan.  Especially this one, this plan; the apocalypse shall be ever so tidy.

One might say that one would appreciate the reality that ‘tis conquest I am seated among.

Ϟ

To be continued…………………………..

Do click upon the image above.  H xxx

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About Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.

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Hamish Ross

Hamish Ross

Indie writing at its most dubious.

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