Yard Sale of Thoughts

There’s only 300 meters left before the ultimate finish line. Keep your eyes down. Avoid the cleavage of a lime green blouse, the up and down bounce of the perky grad’s bottom in jeggings. Think of the polluted grey skies, the thin line of orange that hangs underneath like the soggy bottom of a creamsicle about to be consumed; a reminder that there used to be sunrise, sunset, brightness.  

Keep your face expressionless. Any unusual gestures or signs of happiness may trigger the cameras. Once the lens focuses on you, it’s too late to run. You will be picked up; you will be injected; you will lose memory, lose time, lose location. Be shuffled in somewhere else, like another playing card in a loaded deck.  

If you miraculously make it past the barricades, you will be the first. Do not congratulate yourself. Do not smile, smirk or do anything that will allow your cortisol levels to increase. These will set off their sensors. Consider the cascading warehouse full of drugs; consider the sterility of your species; consider the forced impotence of each and every dreary day. 

You have only one choice to make. You must reach the center of the stacks. Press the red button on your waist. Here, you can cheer, scream, make whatever noise your untethered mind desires. Because in these final moments you should feel euphoria, knowing you are humankind’s savior. 

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_{RHADS at DeviantArt}