Immunity is Futile
As coronavirus continues to starve our supply chains, corrode our transportation links and cut off our escape routes, Earth is beginning to look slightly less neurotic from space with each day: those brightly-lit highways connecting big cities appear ever so much fainter, fading just a little bit more with each passing orbit of the satellites humans have flung around Earth to take narcissistic colour selfie after selfie of their dying planet. Like old, disused veins and arteries emerging out of the amoeba-like cities that have plagued the land like mucus on a petri dish, these veins are beginning to atrophy. They have much less blood to carry through their hungry, porous walls: the once endless supply of oxygenated blood consisting of food, fashion and other “products” stolen from the Earth that the Amoeba needs to feed on, is beginning to slow down to a trickle. But equally, there is much less “dirty blood” to carry back out of the cities: the sewage of capitalism consisting of real and virtual garbage, inequality, exploitation, mental destitution and the post-industrial corpse of self-esteem, all mixed together into a nauseous, iridescent greyish-brown semi-liquid state that smells of despair. It consumes everything on its path, including the species that invented the most bizarre hobby which generated this diabolical river in the first place: the act of self-shitting. The colour of the river exactly matches that of the soulless zombies that once in a while dare to peek their eyes out above the surface to take a breath, and ask themselves if they are alive. They are you, me, and the other zombified citizens of this planet.
Some of us are slightly more lucky. Rather than zombies, we are puppets. We are sustained by mini-veins coming out of the large veins: our salaries, our smartphones, our avatars. They are actually not veins but strings disguised as veins, and we are puppets serving the Amoeba. We are the end consumers of the junk the Amoeba imports.
But the virus is beginning to cut the strings off. Its slow but steady corrosive powers are eating at the web, as the puppets one by one are set free, gradually waking up with each string that snaps loose. They are beginning to realise that they can move on their own. They are beginning to look around them. They are beginning to find the smell of the murk offensive. The more they are quarantined, the more free they become. And they realise that all along, they were the real virus, and what they thought was a virus was actually a medicine sent by Earth to save them.
to be continued…