...Well what of Them chief?
Look. They move on slowly, very slowly. They inch away from Their erstwhile grandeur, yes, there seems to be a resistance in Their motion, an apprehension. Something pulls Them back.
A memory.
A memory too strong and too glorious to let go.
A past.
A past too close and too proud to give away.
Then why do They have to "move on"?
It's in fact more of "dragged on", but since there is no other choice left to Them, move on, dragged on...it's all the same.
Who drags Them on? Or who forces Them to move on?
It is a force, that tears Them away from that splendor. It's this force that reduces Them to half solid, half fluid. Yes, it is a force, a negative force, of things external, manifesting its ill-effects and claiming a life at a place where it doesn't have a place to be. It's this force that makes Them move on...if not kills.
What happens thence?
Well, They move on, carrying the fragments of the magnificence that once was, holding them close and tight to Their chests. The loss of such solemnity to such an inferior enemy is too much to take but They still try to be indifferent to this idea of loss and victory as They always had.
How does that help?
It doesn't. They can't stay indifferent for long or to any avail. The enemy is too blind to notice the indifference and wouldn't stop gnawing on Their nerves, so what indifference? It wouldn't stop until it has pulled Them into a pathetic battle of survival where only the vicious are the fittest to survive. But They try not to think of it.
Not much of an option.
Yes.
So They just keep moving on...until?
Until Their last remnant of form and least bit of force is lost and mixed up in the muddied waters of...well, the lowlands. Eventually. Muddied, polluted, stinky and stagnant, there is no They left then, nothing of Them.
NOOOO!!
OK. There IS something left of Them.
Thank you.
Pleasure ought to be mine.
A memory.
A memory too strong and too glorious to let go.
A past.
A past too close and too proud to give away.
Then why do They have to "move on"?
It's in fact more of "dragged on", but since there is no other choice left to Them, move on, dragged on...it's all the same.
Who drags Them on? Or who forces Them to move on?
It is a force, that tears Them away from that splendor. It's this force that reduces Them to half solid, half fluid. Yes, it is a force, a negative force, of things external, manifesting its ill-effects and claiming a life at a place where it doesn't have a place to be. It's this force that makes Them move on...if not kills.
What happens thence?
Well, They move on, carrying the fragments of the magnificence that once was, holding them close and tight to Their chests. The loss of such solemnity to such an inferior enemy is too much to take but They still try to be indifferent to this idea of loss and victory as They always had.
How does that help?
It doesn't. They can't stay indifferent for long or to any avail. The enemy is too blind to notice the indifference and wouldn't stop gnawing on Their nerves, so what indifference? It wouldn't stop until it has pulled Them into a pathetic battle of survival where only the vicious are the fittest to survive. But They try not to think of it.
Not much of an option.
Yes.
So They just keep moving on...until?
Until Their last remnant of form and least bit of force is lost and mixed up in the muddied waters of...well, the lowlands. Eventually. Muddied, polluted, stinky and stagnant, there is no They left then, nothing of Them.
NOOOO!!
OK. There IS something left of Them.
Thank you.
Pleasure ought to be mine.
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