Figures in the Dark

It's like that time when your parents yelled at you and you had this fantastic comeback and then they shut you down and you simmered for months thereafter in the bitterness and hate that was resentment - at your loss of expression, at your denial of fundamental human rights, and a lost cause to get more money.

There's nothing you can do about it, so you don't try. You just sit in the glum and you hate them more and more. And they act all the more parenty. You wanna fuckin kill something because you can't express what you need to.

It's like that 'ere, right on. Figure A, deceiving you to the best of its abilities in an effort to impress Figure A.1. You resent Figure A, because you get told you are the most important for so long, and when something better comes along, you're out. The Beta version (that's you) is out, and alpha Figure supercedes you in every way possible. You feel usurped of a power you never had, but were willing to believe for a time you did.

Figure B you have recently discovered, must to the displeasure of what you considered to be your good taste, is a nincompoop. Where you once thought lay depth and vision, one unlike any other, you realise it is just another, wearing a rabbit suit instead of a man suit. You were led astray, believing, more wanting to believe than ever having faith in your ability to judge, that you had found one different; refreshing ; deep and thoughtful, and yet you were faced, once the rabbit suit came off and you opened the door before the opportunity arose to rerobe, that below the deceivingly different exterior, a man suit lay as with all the rest, and you shut the door, disenchanted, alone, and visciously unsettled. Figure B, if possible, comes equal first with Figure A, and each sits upon the dais in a sweet, ignorant, bemusement at how they had tricked you so.

Figure C resembles the greater populus of Figures, for figures do not, for simplicity, go past C. You thing - with so much water, how do we not gain more depth? - but forget that with nothing substantial to hold the water, it flows as far as is waterly possible, to cover as much ground and to hide as much of their earthy interior as the stretch will allow. The mating call sounds like that of a cheap bird, the laughs perfunctory, the responses rehearsed and perfected, the nonchalant attitude to living as powerfully self-evident as the apathy to conform. They claim, they claim, we are, we are! But you know they are not. They are not, and they cannot help it. You would pity them, but every fibre in your body disallows you to feel remorse for those who would never dream of feeling it for you.

And your figures are laid out. The voodoo kit in your hand twitches as you are startled by someone drifting in behind you, a soft breeze accompanying the opening and closing of the door.

It's figure X, and they hold you dearly. And while Figures A through C fight it out for top dog of unhappiness, you cling to X; the real world, where none who are so disturbingly, aggravatingly and infuriatingly self-obsessed, self-absorbed, dependent, poncey, whoosey, and unbearably incomplete to their gender roles, for life, for living in every other sense as is definitively human bar breathing and bodily functions, and as figures in the human sense, could ever make it like you.