Imagination Nation

by Kristina

Each piece of success tells another story that will again be hung upon the carefully crafted quilt of their nation. The cardinal members of the Display System trim the hedges of each neighborhood. They sweep the multicolored walkways of Park Avenues 1-1,000 to demonstrate a false sense of equality and tolerance. Roadsigns read “Be your own image” and “Success is never relative” They build you up to break you down. Houses are painted every 6 months. The bottom feeders spray the flowers with neon paint. All the birds have batteries.

Car crashes are the result of sad souls that fall off the conveyer belt – by accident or one’s own intention, both remain untold and go undiscussed in perpetuum. The head on collisions are usually the impaired; consumed by the glimmering attraction of achievement. Divine dinners and expensive champagne. Smart children with college degrees. That shining white yacht. Large houses with expensive furniture. A one thousand dollar plate. Leather fucking toilet seats.

Quiet midnight vanilla sex, forgetting to turn the porch light off, getting the flu. These are the telling traits of the wealthy executives and church groups alike. Fear consumes the mind and the sweet taste of carelessness is soon forgotten – if ever known. Love is but a crutch for the codependent and weak minded, nonetheless essential without question. Marriages are predetermined by the Image Committee; an ugly couple is as sinful as murder.

The sweet existence of their fragile and blossoming youth means nothing. There is no one to answer the first, second, or third knock of a confused and lonely child. Babies are multilingual. Toddlers wear high heels. Teenagers smoke cigars and buy gold watches. They will never create meaningful bonds with one another – they are taught to hate the competition. Their parents will never see them as a gift, they are a requirement – one minimum to each household.

The sky bleeds red and will be covered by a sparkling blue backdrop after sundown. Everything is coated in shining white gloss and glitter, the eroding and rotting objects of nature are incinerated. Logic means nothing, everything is bending and shaping itself to fit a certain format – an image of something entirely deceiving and corrupt. The entire nation is a circle and everyone is drowning in it. Everyone wants attention, admiration, and acceptance. They want to be, feel, and look enough; they want to be their own image. But they never will, no one will ever be their own. Despite their hatred and incessant disconnect, at a predetermined time and place the bodies will be incinerated – and they will all die together.