I am speaking trough sheer impossibility; every sound I
utter is getting shoved back into my throat. The longer I strive the less it is
likely to produce a distinct articulation. The isolation within the human
stream becomes irrefutable although the noise coming from its wake sounds like
communication. Deafening and undifferentiated at times it breaks into audible phrases occasionally echoing each other, joining in corresponding chorales,
chocking in self-destructing reverberations and plunging back in cacophony. I
force my breath but the moment it parts my lips my voice becomes muted. The
futile efforts frustrate me, and seeking distraction I separate myself from the
stream finding a refuge on a bench. The individual next to me is a homeless. He
is understandably suspicious: I bear features of stream creatures. I lit a
cigarette and strike a conversation. Defeated, he issues a toothless smile. We
talk a little, a usual stuff. I am from the suburbs; he is from West Philly. I
like it here; but he wouldn’t mind some money. He recognizes me: I am
just another stream discard. I appreciate the break but betray him leaving
behind as little as a half-smoked butt. How long a break one needs, anyway? I round a corner to get to my car. The task of submerging is not that hard. All it takes is trading the bipedalism for four wheals, and vertebrae
verticality for amorphousness within the car shell. Giving up articulation of
human voice makes it easier to follow the paved paths of multitudes. Everything
here is more efficient for clear communication than ambiguous meaning of
self-composed sentences, the lights left and right, red and white, front and
rear and the horn to make them fear. Colony of insects is not our past. We
don’t share common ancestors. Colony of insects is our future. We reach it by
means of technological advances.
