Paracetamol Rant

What of poverty or of wealth?
To be made humble in the face of the changing face of the perpetrator or the victim, whose gender or colour continue to morph wildly in a sickening preservation of privilege, power and pain, whose triumph or destruction on begets more of the same, an endless cycle of birth and death and rebirth of a gulf between peoples, greed breeding envy breeding hatred breeding violence.

A hermit prays in silence, a cave for shelter,
Or an inherited condominium ruined by alienated citizenship and class guilt.
A child whose limbs are bombed off by violent and paranoid settlers,
Whose parents are burned alive, with only a journalist left to bury the dead.
So many cities and civilizations risen and then razed by ambition and parochialism,
Lands swollen with latent forests bursting out of fertile Earth, disregarding any memorialisation of human impact.
Stone Age temples whose walls continue to be dusty with the salt of the dried sweat of slaves,
long dead,
Whose walls still echo ancient holy chants, multiple generations of monks and kings whose fervent faith and footsteps continue to reverberate through the temple halls.

No history is lost or discovered, only written and reconstructed.
Heritage is a choice; patterns and lineage can be illuminated in so many ways... Slightly more essential than arbitrary, yet way more deliberative than deterministic.
Today, I choose among my heritages, China, Malaysia, Singapore, America, Australia.
I choose, among my heritages, Peranakan, Hokkien, Cantonese, Hakka, and Pink Dot.
I choose, among my heritages, faggot grief and assimilationist defeat.
I choose, among my heritages, larrikin hope, and all the unfinished business of a world in constant change.

There is no tipping point... Revolutions are like the bursting forth of a collective will to cum, after the tension of preceding processions has become too much to hold or bear. Brief, jubilant relief... And still there is always that undertold story of the aftermath of orgasmic revolution... Not all cigarettes and starlight, not all smiles and deep sleep.
As the grandeur of people power subsides, the dawn may bring crumbled memories of a yesteryear no longer here,
Or worse still
That impending recreation of all the chronic ills that plagued us prior to revolution.
We are separated from one another, once again.
The beatings continue, among ourselves.

To revolve, revolve, revolve... Cycles and cycles of possibility and despair
A quiet evening, on a comfortable chair,
Sipping coffee,
Homesick for a culture that does not exist or has not arrived,
Building, brick by brick, a new world to house a childhood that was never quite as innocent as my memory might cherrypick.

The future is brightest at noon.