feverous dreams of killing machines
Hezbollah reaches Toronto; invades Avenue Road parkette
Sirens whirring, the past three hours of tension culminate as everyone travelling in the opposite direction is warned to stay back. It's odd, how I feel like all of this is happening because of me, because of something I have done, because of someone who is coming after me. Let's face it - I'm so inconsequential that my death wouldn't even be a blip on the radar, their tanks would roll over my body towards whatever is (isn't) being accomplished.
Jordan is gone, gone from me gone from Toronto gone from life, I don't know. Just gone. He pushed me away in a fit of bravado when all I really wanted was for him to cower in the corner with me, to run as far away as fast as possible. But I suppose, when you're out for an afternoon stroll with your girlfriend and suddenly find yourself face to face with mutant green killing machines, the thing for a 'man' to do is fight back.
Women and children, shuffled to one side, whisked away by a knight in Giorgio Armani. Men, battling, screaming blood thirsty cries of defeat as their opponent pulls out larger weapons, larger forces and feelings of mercilessness. As we pulled away from the battleground men fell into piles of what used to be other men, now just fossils littering the earth.
No matter where we are moved to, there are always people wondering what has happened - where are the gun shots coming from, the screaming the howling the ravenging of souls. There are always people trying to get closer, trying to see what has happened; stupid people, people who are so entrenched in Hollywood that they would rather see what is going on than save their own lives. This doesn't happen here afterall, we're in Canada.
Normally I would be comforted by my surroundings right now - as we walk into the exclusive vault I note the hand carved wood and rich royal ruby red furnishings. But today, rather than a place of pampering, I walk through the place that could save our lives. The Armani-clad leader owns this, I understand, and while why we were brought here in an ambulance I am not sure of I do know that this is somewhere we will be comfortable, and safe. The luxurious suites upstairs turned into a sort of refugee camp, where we can peek out closed blinds until the rest of the city is ready to welcome us again. But there are only 50 of us - 50 of 1.5 million. So, what's left of the rest of the city I'm not sure of.
We stare at each other across the street. It's over. He knows it's really over, I know it's really over. We both know it's over, and we both know it will be dragged out for another year before anything is done about it.
Sirens whirring, the past three hours of tension culminate as everyone travelling in the opposite direction is warned to stay back. It's odd, how I feel like all of this is happening because of me, because of something I have done, because of someone who is coming after me. Let's face it - I'm so inconsequential that my death wouldn't even be a blip on the radar, their tanks would roll over my body towards whatever is (isn't) being accomplished.
Jordan is gone, gone from me gone from Toronto gone from life, I don't know. Just gone. He pushed me away in a fit of bravado when all I really wanted was for him to cower in the corner with me, to run as far away as fast as possible. But I suppose, when you're out for an afternoon stroll with your girlfriend and suddenly find yourself face to face with mutant green killing machines, the thing for a 'man' to do is fight back.
Women and children, shuffled to one side, whisked away by a knight in Giorgio Armani. Men, battling, screaming blood thirsty cries of defeat as their opponent pulls out larger weapons, larger forces and feelings of mercilessness. As we pulled away from the battleground men fell into piles of what used to be other men, now just fossils littering the earth.
No matter where we are moved to, there are always people wondering what has happened - where are the gun shots coming from, the screaming the howling the ravenging of souls. There are always people trying to get closer, trying to see what has happened; stupid people, people who are so entrenched in Hollywood that they would rather see what is going on than save their own lives. This doesn't happen here afterall, we're in Canada.
Normally I would be comforted by my surroundings right now - as we walk into the exclusive vault I note the hand carved wood and rich royal ruby red furnishings. But today, rather than a place of pampering, I walk through the place that could save our lives. The Armani-clad leader owns this, I understand, and while why we were brought here in an ambulance I am not sure of I do know that this is somewhere we will be comfortable, and safe. The luxurious suites upstairs turned into a sort of refugee camp, where we can peek out closed blinds until the rest of the city is ready to welcome us again. But there are only 50 of us - 50 of 1.5 million. So, what's left of the rest of the city I'm not sure of.
We stare at each other across the street. It's over. He knows it's really over, I know it's really over. We both know it's over, and we both know it will be dragged out for another year before anything is done about it.
posted by keta at 2:56 PM
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