The Heart Of The Beast----Page 10

The red sunset presided over the misery
of war. Beauty contrasting wildly with the
struggle of a society to reinvent itself. What
price freedom? Do the dying have any understanding
of what is happening to them politically beyond the
certain comfort of death? In chaos there is
the urge to hold on to what is precious. To hold
a token of the most sentimental urge close
to one's heart and away from the jaws of oblivion.
It seems almost a pathetic act, yet perhaps
the last gasp of the human spirit.
Men seeking comfort in the breasts of
women. Seeking comfort in alcohol and other
drugs. Seeking comfort in the senselessness of
violence. Seeking comfort in the futility of
war. Futile for the aggressor. Futile for the
defender. Until the system readjusts itself and
continues.
The hero operates in secrecy. He is a
phantom who steals and murders the truth for
a mundane purpose. So the system will not
crack. He medicates himself regularly and
prefers not to go home. He is a vagabond whose
heart is filled with wanderlust. He is criticized
for his restlessness and rootless existence. He
continues his routine out of habit and boredom.
If he keeps moving he does not have to think.
He only has to follow orders. He assassinates
one far nobler than himself. He silences the
whistleblower. The heart dies, but the body
of the beast moves on fulfilling its savage
destiny.