The great tragedy of it, is that it didn't have to
happen. Not at all...we were warned.
And yet, still, it has come to this.
I don't know why I feel this overwhelming compulsion
to go on and on about it. I could have done something. We all
could have done something.
Perhaps the final epitaph on the gravestone of Freedom
will be,
"Why didn't somebody do something?"
That seems to be the common battle-cry of the legions
of humanity that have been sucked into the vortex of the New
World Order.
None of the imprisoned seem to know that the very phrase itself
is reflective of the source of their imprisonment...that this
desperate cry of anguish is in no way an antidote for the terrible
disease that has afflicted 'Liberty and Justice', and that
it is, rather, merely the final symptom of the cursed blight itself.
I can hear the rumbling of the trucks as they come
up the street, and soon I will be hearing the thumping of the
jackboots storming up the staircase, as I have heard them so many
times before. But I suspect that this time, the sound will be
different, that it will have an ethereal quality about it, one
which conveys greater personal meaning than it did when I heard
it on previous occasions.
This time, they are coming for me.
My only hope, is that I can find the strength of character somewhere inside myself to ask the question which lies at the heart of why there is a 'they' to come for me at all...why, in the end, it has finally come to this for me, as for countless others.
The question is, in retrospect, as simple and basic as it is essential for any who still espouse the concepts of freedom and liberty to ask themselves upon finding themselves marveling at the outrageousness being perpetrated upon their neighbors by 'them'...by 'others'...by 'Friends of the Destroyer.'
These are the words that legend ascribes to the tombstone erected in a 'potters field' outside of the B.TV city of Austin, Texas. The tombstone, according to historians who have verified it's existence, though it was removed after being in place for less than twenty-four hours, was supposedly that of Vice-Admiral B. D'Shauneaux.
Although historians have verified the existence of the grave, as well as the tombstone, the actual words inscribed on the tombstone remain in the realm of mythology, as does the true identity of the individual whose grave site it bequeathed with such legendary eminence
The irony of this mythological epitaph-which is said to be a verbatim translation of the final words written on the Vice-Admiral's computer screen when the jackboots laid to the door of his country home finally gained entry, only to find themselves too late to torture yet another living creature-the irony is that it was written by one who, according to a 'parallel,' underground legend ascribed to the mythological Circle of Eunuchs, was, rather than the 'Right Hand of the Destroyer' that history records him to be, actually a tragic figure who, caught up unknowingly in the great drama played out between the Forces of Light and the Forces of Darkness, condemned himself to a life of quiet desperation, restraining himself from acting on the dictates of his conscience because he felt that to do so would bring great danger to those whom history would have us believe he was responsible for ravaging mercilessly, and without conscience.
The great irony is that this lexical obelisk to such ancient concepts as freedom, justice, and liberty, was written by an individual who, by condemning himself to a life of separation from those striving to defend these ideals, did more to protect these concepts from total obliteration from the face of the earth-if you choose to believe mythology over history-than those who actively strove to proclaim them.
The sublime irony of these words is that, despite their self-accusatory
nature, they are an embodiment of the highest standard possible
for any and all who lay claim to being a 'person of conscience'-a
self-decreed standard which, rather than lauding oneself for sacrificing
'much' for the cause of freedom among mankind, instead decries
one's failure to sacrifice 'all' for this noblest of causes.
And the ultimate irony, for those whose cry of lament remains, "Why didn't somebody 'do' something?", lies in the empty grave lying next to that purported to be the Vice-Admiral's final resting place-the grave which, legend has it, is reserved for the last free man or woman remaining on this planet. The grave whose headstone is a plain and simple mirror.
Legend has it that, at dusk during the spring equinox, that one who gazes into the mirror will hear the sound of the Vice-Admiral's voice echoing through the labyrinth of the communal mind of mankind, whispering as if it were a gentle breeze rustling softly through the leaves of the aged willows surrounding the site.
It is a voice tinged with an equal mixture of conscience and remorse. It is a voice that whispers, quite simply,