THE HAIRS

ON

THE BACK OF MY HAND


A Short Fiction

By

David A. Archer
02/15/1968

09/07-08/2006


I suppose most people would think I should be wanting of at least a prison cell by now, but that only exposes their desperate plight in ignorance of even themselves.

Society left me for dead long years ago, and I suppose it is just as well considering the majority of the sort comprising it.

I literally live out of sight, and forage through refuse for anything that I may need.

I haven’t spoken a word to another human since almost as long as I have been ignored.

It is really no big loss.

I can’t say as having actually seen another human to converse with in that time period, anyhow.

Mostly they must keep out of sight as well.

I have watched it all whither over the years – through different excuses and ploys, though yielding no less of the same decay over and over. Like a public toilet or even a street whore; society resembles more closely those within it nearly every minute.

They don’t seem to understand the importance of mystery. Only a desperate want to be seen as having figured something out. Not knowing that even if they had on some odd chance, they would then be all the more incorrect.

It thrives on it, you know? “It” being the massive body of “they” in one instance and then being the result of their predisposition of corruption in motion, in another. Both hand in hand through all of the various and even naturally occurring forms of distortion and altered form. Many times purposefully put forward as “cure” and even “progress.” All of the time, being the victim of its own design quite purposefully though well beyond the comprehension of those posturing their roles.

We are the violation beyond a doubt. Especially those without self knowledge enough to realize, that they are, while seeking that recognition of having been correct in conforming to someone else’s method of contravention en masse.

There has never been a country, society or government which existed without corruption.

We as creatures are proof of its omnipotent and ever wakening existence in even or most mundane and everyday activity.

We are the only species which purposefully corrupt our minds. And do so calling it superiority and progress.

I do laugh when it is that I consider the various forms of society, many existing together without realizing it… even within the same house holds. Each and every one feeling as though they are doing the proper thing in conforming to the corruption which we sow as we continue to violate our very potential with profitable avenues of tried and true depravity in disguise.

The rules themselves are a form of corruption when you consider it. Violating the everything and fluid motion, with the limitations of our small minds and that which results from generations of rotting interpretations passed from one diseased stage in descent to the next. Most likely infected with a new strain of the same old deterioration, which we somehow manage to convert into sustenance.

It gives me cause to consider said consistency of corruption metaphorically. Perhaps corruption itself, in its various forms…is the hare? Always skittering and bounding... Crouching and awaiting the next opportunity in relative safety to advance its position of no certain direction or intention…other than, I would imagine, to elude the predators, and of course, fulfill the want and seeming obligation at finding the finish line before the tortoise.

How is it that we manage it? Through all of the rises and declines. Victories and defeats… Blazi’s and blah’s…

It truly is brilliant in my opinion. That mechanism which now houses the majority of this bane called humanity, and all of its leanings toward corrupting even the very moment with exhale.

I noticed it finally, with no real concern beyond that which I found when first I noticed the hairs on the back of my hand. I just knew that it was and always was, and was by design. Brilliant design at that… which tends to force the corruption of having served better purpose than the hairs I mention in comparison, into the realm of productivity effortlessly. The nothing and subtraction of our existence converted into something other than is our refuse.

Simply put, it puts the direction away from the toward, which then renders advance through utilizing the negating aspect of our very presence and ignorant efforts in conforming to the blight of our own tendencies…which, until said designs, had always rendered pitiable levels of existence and demise.

I am glad that they don’t see it. I am glad that most all still focus on the impossible task of rendering themselves entirely safe, even in contradiction to their own existence. I think that is part of it, too. That effort to conform within the ignorance. It would have to be, seeing that it is, in itself a corruption.

When I finally look at the sun again… whenever it is that I may decide such is worth the discomfort of recognizing emptiness in faces on creatures where once might well have been understanding, I am going to remember to notice those hairs on my hand. I want to see how they respond to the warmth and sunlight.

I have a sneaking suspicion that they will only be as those numerous droves of human like bodies I will most assuredly be exposed to in that endeavor. Not even noticing the warmth of sunshine.

Not responding at all save for reaction perhaps to a breeze, as it pushes them this way or that, swaying… while staying anchored firmly to the back of my hand.

But for now I can rest easy knowing, that the very horse which carries the horses of apocalypse, is safely haltered to the treadmill of eternity…

.......through the perception and unknowing cadence of vacancies posturing as humanity.