Upon Which I Observe The Black Wind
Written By: Jeff Behnke
This wind has many facets, providing services for every type of leaf. For those not wooed by the cunt and the cock, there is a different exterior, powered by the feelings of competition, rewards, medallions. All of it can be yours, this wind whispers, if you just join. Become a spectator or a player in the grand “game of life” which, for some reason, becomes more violent with each passing day. Slight jabs with pads becomes sharp knives with blood, guts strung out in a stadium—heads on posts for the world to see. The power of the victors who have risked all to gain the world!—but have somehow managed to drag the world down with their victims. Look at them cheer for you, the respect they have for the risk you took—a heroic gladiator, fucked beneath the coliseum by those who want the power between their legs, even though this power would just as easily skewer them as it did their competitors. This is the reward of sport and celebrity. Addiction to praise eventually becomes addiction to a chemical high, allowing the victors in these grand spectator sports to one day forget who they are, where they came from, what they did. What once was care for those offering themselves for their own pleasure becomes hate and violence. They eventually mistake their lovers for captors, and punish those they once loved. And the wind whispers, if you just join, play…the sound of an uproarious crowd screaming for you is so sweet to the ears, and sounds a bit like…us.
Oh, but you stoic--unmoved by the above drafts and believing you have escaped the creeping fog--there is more for you if the slight wafts from a small fraction of this wind fail to move you. Yes! Perhaps you were born without a cock or cunt, or are wheelchair bound—pity you-- and do not like to be reminded as such by becoming a spectator in sport. Perhaps you are ugly, unloved. An innocent with a halo of purity, thanks to little more than a genetic disinclination to symmetry and strength. Yes, you have a right to be idle, reading your books and your manuals, growing a halo around your waist to match the one above your head. It’s okay, says this wind, which smells so much like pizza, taco bell, and McDonald’s French fries sopped in salt and ketchup. Where the others have sweat and blood, you have your own in the privacy of your own home, and it tastes soo good! Make a pile of it on your table, a mound of redness and dip in your grease soaked savior and suck on the end, your own version of a needy teat. And when you finish, to get rid of that bitterness that turns your lips in on themselves, what better way to wash it down that with piles of fudge that might as well be the shit of your invisible lover since you have none? No one likes your hunched back, your crooked eyes, so might as well have them deal with your overgrown belly and sagging ass. The wind calls to you as well, but where you fail to hear the cheering crowd, you smell what is coming from their stands.
And yet other leaves remain on this half-stripped tree, sagging upon its weak foundations, where the ancients forget how to hold semblance. The ground feels moist in this hurricane of blackness, death, and desperation. The clouds, so dark, the future so bleak. Why hold on, asks the foundation, where man has no capability of holding onto any of their thoughts as if they are meaningless rubbish? The whirlwind of confused opinions and subjective justifications are torture, it is without hope. The leaves—they just float away as if they don’t care to offer up air for others to breathe and would just rather let go in the free spirit of the storm. The world is flushed in this black wind, and the leaves, once green with life, lay dead in the gutters of humanity. For even the leaves which have so far managed to hang on, and smile because they have somehow managed to survive, laugh at those who have lost the battle. Isn’t it funny to see so many disasters? These leaves enjoy the site of failure and loss. None of the other leaves understand struggle, correct? Not like you and yours. None of the other leaves have survived what you have survived! What pain and sorrow you have seen…where others have had water brought to their lips by the roots below, YOU have had to fight your way out of obscurity, servitude, destitution, and disastrous branches who didn’t give a damn if their offspring survived. You suck harder on the roots, puffing up your cavities with waters from below. Begone, foul leaves who don’t know the meaning of the word life--They deserve their own destruction!
But even these leaves, blooming colors of prowess like peacock tails, hear the wind as well, feel its breeze, which breathes a different sound of allurement. What good are your roots from which you suck up your strength? It whispers. They are just as much failures as these leaves which have just let go. Why don’t you release yourself from the grasp of those who have come before you? Why don’t you let us carry you where you can form your own tree where others will finally see you for what you really are and learn to appreciate what you have done? Your tree from which you have grown has made it so difficult for you, says the whisper. Let go, and we will show you a place where you can form a new foundation, where your leaves will have it easier than you ever had. They will have someone who understands and helps those in need. You will be their savior. And it sounds so wonderful, the wind so trustworthy, so caring, unlike the rest. Yes, the wind has uprooted and killed the rest, but it speaks to you differently, does it not? For you, it is a friend. It understands…and you lift your planted feet, shut your eyes, feel the breeze in your hair like a homemade flag on a new continent that you claim for your own---and are swept away like the rest.
There are no survivors, you see. Even those that remain behind by doing nothing, watching the wind destroy clusters of families in slothic disapproval—they also lose. There is no escape. Where some leaves protected the helpless who sat by and do nothing but watch the world wither away, there is nothing more but gaping holes for currents to flood in, pick them up, and carry them out with the rest. You are not safe by doing nothing. Everything is for naught.
All because of what? The failure of the old roots to cement a proper foundation. But some of those trees—oh, the strength of their roots. The older some people get, the more archetypal. They are no longer stem cells—they have become set in their ways and opinions to the confusion of us all. Life, like lava, flows in the heat of itself, formless, until it ages, cools, condenses, and becomes something much more substantial and permanent. The mind works in similar fashion, unable to break the laws of physics. You can fight it and attempt to remain in a constant state of flux and chaos, but at what expense? Nothing can grow upon you, and instead, your form and substance gets mingled in the flowing tides of unpredictable liquid pushing forth from behind, or swept away by the mere whisper of the black wind. In this respect, permanency of mind, archetypal actions, paves the way for structures to be built upon you—permanency of mind is a cornerstone to progress, and in fact, the more archetypal, the more support offered to the younger magma of spirit issuing forth from the gates of eternity, the well of nature.
Stubbornness? A hatred of change? No… a foundation for the young is not stubbornness—it is wisdom. The attacks against ritual I know so well because I attacked them for so long. The constant itch in the back of my head that will not leave, saying, “Why am I doing this? What does it matter? No one means what they are doing—it is an act. A procedure with no humanity.” No, I was wrong. Ritual is an archetype, and that archetype is the foundation for the young to know of their history, a foundation that will be used later in life for another purpose. They are roots that feed the young leaves hanging from branches in the trees, roots that will not allow the black wind to dislodge them. That is the archetype—that is its strength, its purpose. This wind can be beaten through sheer willpower alone—our willpower. That willpower comes from somewhere—us. Our past. Our stubbornness. Our rituals. We pave the way for the future by becoming permanent fixtures against this black wind. Show everyone how not to give in, to fight it, to understand why its whisper is filled with death when it seems to be the opposite. Life giving? Nay. A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Nay—too noticeable. How noticeable is a sheep these days, let alone a wolf dressed up like one? The analogy no longer works. It has to be something more cunning, changing with time, our time. An internal wind that has allowed spiders to set up the world wide web and catch victims in the dark. An internal wind on the dark net which we use to feed a destructive hunger inside of us that we don’t understand. What you stare at online, what you do, what you look at—your children are the victims, driven to their deaths through a lack of foundation. You want to see the future? I will show you, right now. This is you. This is your children. This is the end.