Vapours

Coloured lights singe out through the blackness, frantically buzzing round the active streets where groups of persons walk the wide pavements alongside the stuttered movement of queuing traffic. The meagre breeze blows coolly on my sweaty skin, the inner glow from intoxication calming by soul as my eyes absorb the tableau of the city night.

I dissolve, float up, joining the vapour of normal city smog. I hang outside a window; a student ritual therein: some debating group that's been advertised throughout the echelons of university existence.

I slip through the glass; go inside.

Joining the group toward the back, I care not for the words that are said. To me, their ideas are hackneyed and trite: there's not a single original voice in the room. What passes off as valued opinion is merely rote-learned from whatever newspaper or blog.

How are we supposed to advance as a species when we are incapable of knowing our own mind? Even your taste in music is tainted by the notion of what-you're-supposed-to-like. Individuals are unable to interpret culture without that side-glance towards that trusted arbiter of opinion.

I utter a sharp, derogatory laugh, shattering the delicately crafted discourse, turning all heads my way to be met by my lack of returned gaze, my lack of interest. Whose delivered beliefs I interrupted matters not to me. It does not matter whose voice was silenced.

There are true revolutionaries present: Fakers who purport to be Progressives. They are the types who rebel against society's rebels; who perform an intellectual three-sixty, placing their faith firmly in the hands of the conservative elite. They are easy to spot: like those with right-leaning beliefs, they are the most argumentative, mentally protected by the fact what they say commands the support of journalists from main stream medium sources, since what they say is entirely borrowed from the journalists of some mass medium source.

Their commitment to someone else's lies liberates them from polite social conduct, injecting certainty into their minds which fills their argument with a rigour unmatched by the unprepared. Like a religious nut, you cannot win an argument here. No matter how clear your reasoning, the True Revolutionary is convinced of her correctness: like the disciples of the right wing press, they cannot be wrong if they repeat the words from 'trusted' national newspapers.

The debate continues and I amuse myself checking out the room. How old fashioned it all looks: worn, tired, out-of-date. The flaking magnolia around the rotund radiators leaves dandruff on the scratched parquet flooring. What the night and the allure of lights conveniently conceals is just how obsolete this city is: the might of supposed wealth undermined by the wanting resources, lacking technology, post-war dowdiness.

I drift on.

Over and out for now, guys!

xxx