The world is a machine. We are all cogs on the wheel. Blind idealism toward
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The "next step" in evolution. However, if we are just aimlessly evolving
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Throughout time, any idea of humanity trying to work toward some "purpose"
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Is blind, meaningless ambition, and humankind becomes a sort of machine ?
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Churning and shifting gears, but never actually achieving a goal. But what
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Good is a machine without a purpose? The man chooses to, in his mind,
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"stop" the machine; detach himself from the world, and the machine. Not
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That such detachment is a good thing, but to fully understand truth, he
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Must first see himself outside of the "machine." (Themes borrowed from a
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Short story of the same name. Read here.)
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A cold steel womb. A distorted view. A deafening hum that won't be subdued.
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We've found our being within this churning, and the gears that are turning,
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But to what end?
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To what end?
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This is not what I'm meant for, this is not what I am.
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A cog, a spoke in the machinery of men that never takes us to where we
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Haven't been.
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Is it too late to take this all back?
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If I plant my feet upon this trail without a reason or destination,
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Then this ship has sunk before it sailed.
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An endless churning roar, a labyrinth of steel and ore.
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Our blood becomes the oil, a meaningless, purposeless toil.
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You are all mindless sheep, just a piece of the machine.
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Keep fueling your hopeless dreams, they will never mean a thing.
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Detach: can we pull these wires from our veins? Divide our flesh, our
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Blood, our names.
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In the face of the machine my reflection stands and turns, as I walk. I'm
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Never coming back.
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The Machine Stops
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| A Hope For Home |
