Friday, February 7, 2014

Tender Russian Hope

I am two years away from striking thirty; as I survey my domain, I preside in a panicked mental state of Joseph Stalin in the virgin days of the surprise German invasion of the Soviet Union.

Human waives of blue-eyed, blonde soldiers in neat uniforms decimating his dark socialist empire, blasting away at his Eurasian dream with their fine, Aryan machinery of war.

Yes, my life appears to be a failure.

I'm a college educated man with (what I presume to be) above average intelligence working as a night grocery clerk, stocking cat food -all kitty faces have to face the aisle, the cans should make perfectly matching columns- for a few bucks above minimum wage listening to surprisingly melancholy love songs they play in supermarkets. The kind of songs I usually never stop to really hear as I rush to the frozen pizza section.

My personal life rotates around trying to open lines of communications to a beautiful, enigmatic girl in Seattle to whom I tried to connect for five years now.

"Am I a sometime charming loser you like to keep around? What is your favorite color? Am I its opposite?"

I ask in a text and receive no reply.

My table is filled with empty Pepsi bottles, above the table is my Buddhist shrine; Tibetan saints looking down at my empire of litter, dirty carpets and scattered clothes.

What is this?

I don't know.

Soviet Russia rose from its knees and the invaders were repelled as the bodies piled up. Layers of flesh paving the road to Berlin. Mangled, burnt corpses marking the borders of of the new red kingdom.

In a few years, generalissimo Stalin was studying maps of conquered Europe with a dying Roosevelt and a weary Churchill.

The human toll of victory overshadowed by its spoils.

In one of his last diary entries, Goebbels opined that Russians and Americans were more Aryan than Germans: the former advanced while the latter retreated.

It was a sick worldview but he was faithful to it to the bitter end. History as a jungle where only the victorious creature with blood dripping from its whiskers is the truly glorious animal.

The only animal that matters.

The Fuhrer appeared to be that beast; and though his mustache was soaked in blood, he was now the prey.

So, yes friends, there is hope.

But at what price?


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