It seemed as though it were only a year later, but three had passed since the mountains had been raided and the soldiers had been killed, and yet there were still wives, lovers, mothers, searching for their sons. If it weren't for the list, the grand list that revealed every name, and the identifications of the dead there would be no use for such a search, but so many names did not add up. The mystery, the agony, the intense and willing self-imposed pain and grief that a mother felt when a son was subjected to such a duty and then, after seven long years of labour, was cut down, sliced in his prime.
It had to be guilt, really.
But there was nothing for a mother to do, other than to lose her mind and herself among the mountains, scattered amongst the weeds and the remnants of a worksite, an area where the men would have stood for hours, slaving away, at their machines their plain and simple army gear, their brows thicks with sweat, dust and focus. It was pride that the mothers lovers longers should have been feeling, but they felt responsbile. As they should have been, really.
The seven years was preluded by a terrible accusation: laziness. Flying words like spitfire, the shields melted away with ease as the then "soldiers" crashed to their knees, pleading that they could do anything. Mighty, men on high pride, vanity, and yet the crusaders, the real warriors of their time had been cut down. So there was proposed a plan, and Tom was the head.
Tom. Tom Tom Major Tom was the head. He held his high, too, along with the lazy bastards surrounding him he too believed he was invincible. He was the ultimate. Tom took his tea with a side of gold, right off the crown if possible. He had no mother, no lover, no follower to come looking for him after the seven, and even beforehand he had no accusations, he was pushed forward with an itnernal catalyst of passion.
Tom dreamed of absolute intrusion. He defined laziness as something that could be cured but only by freat lengths, the purest work, the explosions. The best part? Tom knew the plan since the beginning. He knew there would be failure, he knew of the extinction, he knew that the ploy of the already-successful was to rid the world of people who had no dreams. And he intended to ignite this idea, this loss of impassionate people to his own dream of transition. Pf an identity.
Tom, however, was far too ignorant to the fact that his passions mirrored none of the hierarchy. Tom took what he wanted, he took the seven as a whip-enslaving, lip-biting infestiation decreasing; a long, tedious excursion into the good-riddence of the un-needed. He stepped on the hands of those workers who had begun to believe in the quality of men, the partiality of teamwork. The successful did not realise that by conscripting so many men together had formulated a cult, a dream, a passion, a fire that began within and spread, the flames engulfing the laziness's souls, and transformed a generation of men into a power.
Surprising enough, they killed them all. It was the end of success, then, and Tom had realised it in the red light within the first ten seconds. Seven hours gone and the wasted time had only given them time, loss within gain, and then Tom had run. He had passion prior to the seven, and he intended to inspire chaos elsewhere. Major Tom, the dreamworker, the spellbinder, the enslaver, the enslavement. Major Tom, the Brava.
And so he began his challenging encore towards the "successful," wondering if there would be a lost Major Tom tombstone sitting atop a glorious hill on those mountains, surrounded by admiring flowers and wreaths, hankercheifs that surrounded the others'. That was what was custom on the mountain apparently, respect paid for the attempts of the men, and each man his own tombstone stood shining. Tom had not visited his own yet, but that was near, the moment increasing in importance as his plan continued to grow. Tom, with his lack of family lack of compassion for the other stones, he wondered if his stone would be bare after all, but figured against it.
He had not engaged in dialogue in a month, living under the ground in a small cave as the shots had come across and down and around, sweeping. He had been swept, after all, to his hiding place prior to the seven, where he knew the Success had taken great liberty to ignore. Tom knew he was important. He had been sitting in the cave for nearly a month before he realised he would be okay, but of course he would, he was the great Sir Major Tom. The valiant crusador, on behalf of the successful everywhere, he lead the dispassionate into their demise and had survived himself, he was not the weakest link.
Well that was fun for now, I think I'm just going to write about Tom being a DICK, but I'm going to need to brainstorm some of his plan. I'm thinking the dispassionate tombstones are going to be blue, and he paints his red, for anarchy, and then continues to destroy the dispassionate, being praised by himself, he lives in his own world. why do I always write about men who live in their heads? I could insert duality of the successful following him, and at the end... at the end he could finish his plan, but he could be brought down, moral of the story? the focus? Everyone is passionate about one thing but dispassionate about the other? Or don't be an asshole, but that's apparent. Tonight seemed like a good night, I put on some zeppelin and just sat here crying for a bit, I fell in love with Tom tonight, admidst his vanity, he is a knight of the round table in my head, and he is stepping down from the grandeur wood and taking some well earned advice: not looking in the mirror, that narcissistic bastard.
night.
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