The Happy Little Slave

Doug Michael

The happy little slave never awakens, he merely accepts what is given.

The happy little slave lives to conform, her true essence compromised.

The happy little slave simply goes along to get along, a tattered vessel, sailing upon the stormy seas of despair.

Emotionally devoid and cognitively arrested, the happy little slave accepts their plight without question.

The happy little slave drifts amidst the tumultuous currents of stagnant desperation, torn beneath the crushing waves of indifference and apathy.

The happy little slave remains devoid of selfhood, her identity naught but a false persona.

The happy little slave does just what he is told to, a perpetual and willing victim of the simulacrum that ensnares his mind.

The happy littler slave wanders forever aimless, lost to the designs of tyranny and inner oppression.

The cracks in the foundation are becoming more apparent but the happy little slave does not see it nor does he care. Why should he? He’s watered and fed like the cattle that he acts like, so to fall into the dust of oblivion is the destiny of his own making.

The happy little slave will never be aware of her surroundings, she will simply march to the beat of the drums of her oppression, eternally lost in a dismal abyss of unawareness.

Stoking the fires of his own demise, the happy little slave neglects his own sovereignty and wallows within an emotionless wasteland, a shadow of his true potential.

The blood-soaked chains of tyranny and oppression clank yet again through the streets of misery but the happy little slave does not care; in fact, he will go and vote for his masters, believing that the solutions lie outside of himself just as he has throughout history. The results have always been the same.

The happy little slave teeters on the edge of the precipice, staring oblivion in the face, and yet welcomes her extinction with open arms; her thoughts but a remnant of the child she left behind, her soul naught but a shadowy reflection of inner death projected.

Directed by outer stimuli, the happy little slave never looks within, for he is too fearful, too distracted and too estranged from his own self to ever dare engage in such a courageous undertaking; for the heart of the warrior has been bred out of him and he has become nothing more than a mindless lump of unthinking, unfeeling, mailable clay in the hands of those who would enslave him.

Care and compassion are foreign concepts to the happy little slave that exists on the outskirts of her own being, carelessly floundering upon an ocean of apathy and inner emptiness. Her thoughts are not her own, her sentience diminished, and yet she remains blinded by the masks of falsehood and the self-imposed chains of willful ignorance.

Passion faded, empty, shattered, cold reflections stare back from the broken mirror of the happy little slave’s misplaced dreams.

Wounded, estranged from inner peace, broken, distant, empty; each escape but a shallow reflection of the happy little slave’s own inner emptiness.

There is a constant attack upon your essence, upon that which makes you human. It oozes through the cracks of “culture” and it weaves its web around the consciousness, the very soul of humanity. Its insidious and sordid machinations wind its way through the psyche on levels so deep and intense that you cannot even see it.

Yardley Pearson photography:


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