The last of the tourists

Do you wish you were here? Exchanging a walk on part in a war for a lead role in a cage? Who said that? A singer, perhaps.

We are the last of the tourists. Outside is desolation, a ravaged planet that used to sustain life until we visited the fuck out of it and installed our dysfunction as the norm. We are the last to bear witness, staring through tempered glass at the untempered ravening hordes. We share a bucket of popcorn, munching as we observe. It’s a kind of reality tv writ large. Plato would have loved it.

Do you wish you were here? A tourist in your own land? You were lost years ago. Swollen and bloated, a dead goldfish floating in a bowl. We threw you out without regret, although it’s fair to say that I miss you now. That I wish you could see this. Our fears come true.

The citizens chafed impatiently at the least touch of authority and ceased to care even for the laws.

Good old Plato. He knew. Society had to fall, like the Goddess of Democracy in that Chinese square. It seems so long ago that we had hope to shatter.


In response to a Past Postcards tweetWish You Were Here by Pink Floyd and elements of Plato.

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