The Dystopian of Plague and Truth

Fragility within the foundation of trust vs reality

Photo by Michael Competielle

Weightlessly I’m freefalling, hardly able to identify my surrounding, its walls ablur. My hands reaching the farthest extremity hoping to grab a stronghold to stop the fall. Heart racing, I open my eyes to recognize I’m lying in my bed. The freefall, my fears from the chillingly stark reality of this moment.

Slowly I open my blinds and peek outside. Early morning, fall, in middle-class America. The invisible haze of loathsomeness, as the plague hangs low, a fog of war. Every human, we suspect, a carrier of the pathogen. 

Firmly I verify the adhesion of the duct tape on the window, attempting an airtight seal. Do I have enough houseplants to create the required oxygen to ensure my survival? My hoard of food and paper goods rapidly decreasing. According to my charted course, I’ll likely die of starvation if the brown box man stops coming.

My avoidance of electronics, my isolation from the outside world prove difficult as I’m required to login as I work from home, do my shopping, and interact socially. The propaganda of the fake news, lies that become fact as our corrupted media redacts the truth.

Manipulated fragments of reality, strategically assembled into dissolvable morsels of newspeak. Pestering disinformation shared by our colleagues, family and friends. Abridged versions of agitprop, socially designed to instill fear and anxiety.

Orwellian conceptualizations, coming sharply into focus. We are the proles, while the machines, and the elite feverishly write our future.

Our totalitarian dictator of a leader refuses to step down. Claims of victory while questions the moral fiber of the democracy, the system he’s chosen to destroy. 

Separating our nation from the outside world, ignoring human rights and a deplorable reaction to the plague. There can’t be opposition, because he says so. The stoolpigeon and patsy for the oligarch, the indoctrination of inequality. It’s Us versus Them.

The dogs, asleep on the floor, my protectors, who alert me once the brown boxes arrive. The smaller boxes they’ll generally ignore. It’s those large brown boxes they can smell, knowing the contents. A bark as if to say, open it up. I must quarantine the package, to avoid contamination from the virus.

Opening the cabinets, I look for my meal. Canned Okra. What was I thinking? Time to order more brown boxes.

Masked zombies join in packs. Discussing trends and statistics from capitalist endeavors. While others wait patiently, locked in their homes, awaiting the brown boxes. 

Medicines arrive that dull the pain, continuing to fuel the addiction. The foundation of what we had built, slowly diminishing, like a dissonant pipe organ chord in a Bach Fugue. Our choices and beliefs shrinking away. As the plague and false truths coagulate into a syrupy tar. A poisonous bitter pill we must swallow. Our fate solidified, we must only question what will kill us first.