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Victims Die Slow

Victims Die Slow

Casting Call

The Victim strolls through life, uninhibited by his own tragic state, unaware of the folly of his existence. When life goes well, he laughs and sings and is captivated by his circumstances. Life is glorious and wonderful; all is well. The path is smooth and everything is the way it ought to be.

When life turns, as it will, The Victim is taken aback. How could life, something so glorious and wonderful and well, turn to this? What is this? This rain and snow and mud? The path, once smooth and flat, is now a bogged swamp.

The Victim’s insecurities and doubts rise through the mud and fog and into the air. He breathes them in and tastes their bitterness.

Something is wrong here! The Victim cries. Life, this gentle ride, has turned on me. Where is my warmth and comfort and satisfaction with state?

He falls in the mud and weeps for his despair of discomfort and fear.

How was he cast as The Victim? Where did it all start?

Artificial Sunshine

The Victim was something else long before he fell into the mud for his despair of discomfort and fear, long before he was choked by his insecurities and doubts. He was just another person wandering through life, dissecting his purpose and uncovering meaning. Culture, however, took hold of The Victim. It asked him to soften his edges and play gently with the soft edges of others, those without conviction.

Conviction? Purpose? Culture asked. Leave them there, by the door. Step into the warmth of acceptance and ease. Breathe in the artificial sunshine and relaxing melody of a murmuring crowd.

So, The Victim did. He left his convictions and his interest in purpose by the door and wandered into the artificial sun of ease and comfort and joined the relaxing melody of a murmuring crowd. He became like the rest, stuck in routine and fixated on comfort.

A larger television, a softer couch, alcohol and drugs, late nights and later mornings, a craving of opinion.

It all came. Slowly, first, like towering clouds rolling across a blue sky. Then, as a storm drenches an open field, The Victim was enveloped in comfort.

He became addicted to comfort and opinion and visual. He forgot convictions in his blank scrolling through Instagram. His dissection of purpose was lost to his study of material success. Uncovering meaning was left behind as he ran toward acceptance.

Victims Die Slow.

The Victim, our soft character, abandoned his emotions and passions and curiosity for some construct of others. He emptied his interest in himself for his interest in the opinions of some murmuring crowd.

His death comes slowly. It is not a physical death, but a mental and emotional one.

Without these emotions and passions and curiosity, The Victim becomes a robot in a sea of robots. They all chime the same tune:

“We are special. Everyone is special.”

“Our opinions matter. Listen to us.”

“Join us here. Murmur with us.”

Life, the mountain of uncertainty and adventure, does not listen; victims have no say. Lacking emotions and passions and curiosity, The Victim is not special, and his opinion truly does not matter. There is no need to hear him. He begs impatience and his emotions shift with circumstance and he is weeping in the mud, surrounded by an air of his insecurities and doubts.

It all began when life showed him hardship and fear, when he saw Culture’s doorway was open and warm with that artificial sunlight.

The Detesters

The Victim is not special, his opinion does not matter, there is nobody to hear him, and his murmur is detested by those who shut the door on Culture, the great construct.

Those detesters who, with emotions and passions and curiosity, explore the world and their minds and bodies and purpose with a strange vigor, a lust for sensation and experience. Not the experience of acceptance and some great murmur, of course; the experiences of cold water, dry deserts, frosted pines, blistered feet, and bloody knees. Of tired eyes and heavy packs. Of deep wells of paint or long-winded anecdotes. Of tales of courage and fear. Of the Wicked Trail, this great ultra marathon of life. 🌲

We cannot hear his murmur, this cult cry for relevance, from the tall peaks of sensation.

Live as The Victim and you will die a slow death of your mind and spirit, a mental and emotional death.

Live outside of comfort and Culture, explore deep valleys and tall peaks, run the Wicked Trail, and leave the murmur of the special and opinionated and addicted behind.

Welcome to the Wicked Trail

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