How To Be Officially Insane.

Watch out for the game.
The game's the thing.
Play the game.
The game hints at things nobody should know.
They should accept the hint, then shy away in fear for their lives.
The fear should be a mortal dread that knows no reason or cause; but it should be there nevertheless.
By such means we are controlled.
By such means we are shielded.
By such means we are blinded.
And in our blindspots walk the Deadly Dulls, the creatures that think that they have a better hint than us.
They are controlled too.
They are controlled by need. By drugs. By fear, too.
Yet they feel superior because they can move around our perceptions without registering.

Because we have all been blinkered.

When the haters of rule want to make our lives into a sick joke, they commit their forces and role-playing gamesters to violations so obvious that we can't miss.
They try to teach us lessons.
We can either fight back, or we can scurry back to our burrows.

If we ever do fight back, they will pursue us to our burrows and blitz us till we burst.
But we don't all burst.

Some of us see. And think. And realise. Maybe we'd even feel, given half a chance.

But we know.
And then everybody gets scared. Because Number One sees all and is the maddest of the lot.
And if we see Number One, we might become hyperactive.
So we have to recognise when to stop.

But they don't. They never stop.
Their fear knows no limit. Their fear turns to obsession.
And the persecution goes on.
Aided and abetted by the little people, the people who are used to the comfort zone.

They are the blasted woodland around the blackened stump of every individual that was ever singled out for the treatment. They are the lightning that strikes in simulation of omnipotence, the actuality of secrets sustained by group loyalty and violence.

And we who have learned to see without seeing, know without knowing and hate without malice,
we are declared insane.




Like Anatol Scharansky.