Words From The Gutters

I know you all hate me, I know that I am the devil incarnate in your eyes, but I plead for you to listen to me one last time.

I remember when I was a young boy, pure and clean, not like I am now, and I thought that the world would one day reach a state of utopia. A grand existence where no human would have to pay for anything at all, and we could all live in the free communion of each other's company. When I got older I fought for that dream, killed for it, was willing to die for it, but now I cannot look at myself the same.

I thought they were all liars, I thought they were cheats and hecklers, all saying that the world had to have money because that's how it had to be, the world couldn't function any other way and nor should it. Even when I was a kid I was smart enough to know that that was bullshit, but then I too got it wrong, so how can I judge? I would go on to make the fatal mistake of seeing the world in black and white, one-or-the-other and no in-between. I think the first time I saw someone die is when I realized that that wasn't the case.

***

It was a January, cold as hell and brutally windy. The dim sky was blanketed by that awful winter overcast that never seemed to truly go away. I was high up, as ordered, and waiting for my opportunity to do what was right for humanity. It was there that I could look around and see the hidden beauty of the world that can only be seen from a vantage point, a birds-eye-view.

The city was white, snow-covered, and relatively quiet. The humble houses seemed to make wonderful large rolling hills of snow that decorated the cityscape. The typical Russian architecture was new to my eyes, and the large church spires and draconic stone streets delighted me, they were right out of a Dostoevsky novel. Below me I could hear the tiny ringing of a silver store bell as its door opened and closed -- It was a bookstore, selling the latest and greatest in Russian literature. I remember wondering if they sold any of the books I'd been reading recently, then I remember that Russia had outlawed them.

In the distance I saw a crowd. They flocked the sides of the road like loyal dogs, patiently waiting in the cold and moving around ever so slightly to keep warm. I know I shouldn't have, but I spent a lot of my time looking at that crowd, seeing if I could find black sheep, dissenters of the status quo. I had seen a young boy dancing in the road, waving his arms around like a stage performer and smiling. I loved that kid. I also saw a man standing on a milk crate, screaming to the crowd like a mad man and undoubtedly raining down spit on those unlucky enough to be in front of his wrath. I couldn't hear what he was preaching, but It didn't really matter to me anyway.

I was a poet back then, a lovely boy that saw the world through a romantic lens, and who tried to find meaning in ants. In my journal from that day I had written: Birds must be brilliant writers to be exposed to such beauty all of the time. I thought it was a delightful sentence at the time, but now I can only look at it with a shaking head. I also had a book next to me, a small, almost pamphlet-like book called The Great Lie. I had read it many times before, but often re-read it when I needed courage.

It was then that I heard it, the echoing roar of engines and the dumb thudding of large tires rolling off of the stone roads. I turned my head and could see them, a river of black cars slithering around the street corner like a silky cobra. There were a lot of them, more than I cared to count. The crowd went ecstatic with their arrival, I could see hands raised to the sky and I could hear their desperate shoutings. The boy was yanked from the road.

I remember feeling the sweat drip down from my forehead, and the nervous sensation of shaking hands. I tried to take a deep breath but anxiety filled my blood and doubt clouded my mind, as it often does in times of great opportunity. I also began to have that awful experience of feeling my heartbeat in my ears, a muffled thudding that almost felt like someone was physically hitting the side of my head. It didn't matter though, it was my time, my opportunity. I gazed down at the tattoo I had on my right forearm, the words of my leader: Opportunities can only be properly taken with fire, seize yours and be remembered forever.

In my hand was a small black box, it was heavy and felt like a stone. It was awful. On its right side was a switch, and in the center a key to turn. I looked down at the street again and saw it for what it would soon be, a wasteland of bodies. I wanted to turn away, to avert my eyes and try and preserve my soul. But I had made a promise to myself long ago, I had made a promise to never look away from my own actions, and to always make sure that I knew what I was doing. So I turned the key.

***

See that's the fucked up thing, that's the grand illusion that everyone is under. I used to dream of a world with no money, a world that had no cost to anything, and harmony could be achieved. The men of today's world dream of more cost, brutalizing their fellow man for more precious capital. I now know that both are wrong, that both are a lie. It all reminds me of a quote from a great man, it said something along the lines of: You can't see the world in black and white, otherwise you always end up on the extremes. You end up in the ditches of the road, the gutters. I used to hate that line, I had spat on it many times before, but now nothing is closer to my heart. I was in the gutters.

You see, what I learned that day was that everything has a cost. Even an opportunity. And that by taking the opportunity that I had that day, I cost this world thousands of lives, and possibly more in the days to come. I thought I was a hero, a savior who would help the sheep remove the wool from their eyes and shatter the tower of lies that this world was built on, to be a shepherd for the lands of greater futures. I have only shepherded people into the arms of death. I have only realized that I myself was blindfolded.

So, my final call to you, my last use of meaningful breath is this: We are all under wool, life is just many layers of confusions that no man could ever hope to penetrate. Do not fall under the illusion of men who claim to know all, no one does. Everything has a cost. And don't fall into the gutters.

- Antonio Gavel

Final words from the gallows.