Who's to say?
They say the life is great, is worth living to its fullest, total, potential. But who are they? They try to stamp down the masses. Their life is only to better themselves. Who the hell are they anyway? Do they have names? Are they saints, or maybe they are humble, modest, an honest gentleman. They must be prefect reflections of the god of wisdom to be so enlightened to tell the mother of a crimpled toddler life is grand; to tell the homeless, the oppressed, the tortured that living is what it is all about. How about the departed, the slaughtered? ‘Life is great!’ The dead are deaf to you; you have killed them. The starving elder who you offered your truly amazing advice to, he’s still chewing on it, pulling out all of the essence, feeding his sluggish blood. Life! It’s so Wonderful! The slave who lost his leg to this technological machine called reality, he’s just pining over your attention and spooling around your every word. The gears of your artificial life turn, powered by the flesh and bone of countless peons. Conductor, Marionette Player, you have your subjects dancing, twirling, to the music of your screechy voice. You are a god now! But wait, what happens when blood stops lubricating and bones burst under the strain and you fall from your throne to be hung by your own harp of discord?