The map is not the territory

“Who rules our symbols rules us.” Alfred Korzybski

They can only hear echoes.  Flashes of light, dripping water, their feet chained to the ground as they slowly shuffled on, with no goal except deeper darkness.  They continue wiping the light of crushed wings from their hands but it does not fade.  Without questioning they shuffle on, directionless,  in a breathless, blinded silence.  She basks in the freedom of the beat of her heart above them.  They no longer look to the sky, their gaze never rises from the movement of their feet.  She sheds a tear which unleashes a torrential downpour upon their heads.  Stars shoot by her head and through her arms as she clutches the crescent of the moon beneath her foot.   She remembers the power still held within her hands, in one swipe  she once again feels what beats inside of her.  Through the shadows and in between the beats of the moon swaying beneath her feet, she sees a man sitting atop the globe of the earth, raising and lowering his hands as countries are created and disappear.  The shadows existing in his own mind only as digits, once living breathing things, now being sold at the tips of his fingers.  Information the only currency he ever knew.  Bought and sold, traded, gambled upon, lives in ruins, lives now existing only as shadows.  The same shadow which drove him.  The laughter in the background thunders on as pockets are filled with useless paper and life remains defined by the struggle of all those on top, with their boots deeply planted upon the heart of all the shadows flowing throughout the universe.  The cries subvert his consciousness from deep within.  The shadow that helped him forget the evil he does in the name of progress, in the name of normality, disappears.  He ignored her voice.  Since he was a boy he let it breeze by, forgotten in the wind, drowning in the rustle of the leaves.  The world became the pictures he mapped it out as and for everyone else without question, became the only thing they saw.  She still never gave up, she did not know how.  His shaking hand grew stronger with every thought, every wave of his hand painting a new picture of what the land below their feet contained.  But what escaped from inside of him could not be contained.  Awakened in deep sweat in the middle of the night, it began to control him, it became the only thing he could see in front of him.  And still the picture he painted was the only reality most could see.  As far as it existed from him, it never truly left.  Shaken by the thoughts overcoming his sight he lie awake at night as the wind continued beating against the window but never got through.  The sound of her voice would whistle by but it only made his hand stronger.  In creation he found life but only as he sold the only thing each number, each shuffling shadow held in the palm of their hands.  He remained secure that they would never see any kind of truth as they were devoured by lies every second of every day.  Still with hands and a slightly beating pulse they could reach for something he did not paint, something he did not plaster with his own facade.  That beat of the wind continues flowing as they shuffle on she reaches for them but they still can’t quite see through the thought that they exist as nothing but numbers.  They wipe their hand upon each shadow in fron of them and they see the faded light, and they remember the wings as they look to the sky, the man quivers in his sleep and cannot close his eyes

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