Living in a maze, one does not know what is real and what’s an illusion. The roads, windswept and trodden hundreds of times in the hot African sun; many hot African suns, are not clearly defined even at high noon. It is the dust swirling around the weary traveller, but it is also the ghosts of opposition.
The opposition is always present: lurking in the shadows even when the words out of the mouths of the usual allies are positive, inviting. Opposition is what defines some journeys making the slog that much more unpleasant.
Red. There’s a red mist hanging over the world. The bull that looks through these lenses sees red even when the actual color on any given code may be green.
Red. Because in this brave new world, the robot overlords are already comfortable in their lofty places.
There was a time when all our overlords where green. But those are old days. The old masters are on a dung heap, their green paint is peeling off and they are soon to fade from living memory.
So here we are. Seeing red. Blocked at every level, knowing there’s no way to even dream of turning the code to green again.
Red. There’s no escape. The old bridges are ashes now. What’s more, bridges are not made the old way anymore. We stand on this beach and try to look to sea. For any sign we’ll be rescued. We do not want to be marooned another minute.
But then we know also, deep in our consciences, the red robots are with us for ever.