The tragedy of the modern Moses

He did not come back, never he looked back, like Lot's wife to the east as the city fell.
With his luggage in trailing wheels, with the wanderlust of the forgotten memory.

No one called his name, the ones that made it out before the fall were as lost as him, but not as alone.

Millions cried for help, and he remembered his feet pointing to the future, opposite his ways.

Once he thought that they loved him, back when they mistreated him daily, he had the occasional act of kindness, or what was mistaken for it.

The hope of it seemed to clear his head, to make him see a future were he was needed, and in the convalescent tears of camaderie final-felt his pain would meld into sweet and bitter glory.

And that was the almost the same thing he felt when he saw his own womb and master admit that she did not want him.

A second-class pariah, he sold into druggery. But now it was not called that.

He went to his wife, and home, and there he too he used to be met with disappointment. Useless he was thought. No one really cared.

There was always that crushing thing, that he could not name on the back of his throat, when sometimes, maybe a special someone, one he used to see each and every day in high school would smile at him.

But when she would hiss and snarl, in her portrait of disgust, or when he had sent her flowers each day, and when he finally admitted it was him the anonymous sender; he could never forget how she saw him, that face, that horrible face, and the shouts of hungry stalking.

In his job he never saw success, or so they claimed. He had even seen many a dreamer scorn him. That very human and particular feeling of hate for the weak, that one. The one that would he had been as lowsome as them he would have called it opputunism.

He had ample evidence to go to the plaza and cry his lungs. The affairs of Emily, and the lurid photos of her with her paramours, how many bosses had he not seen steal from the company in which he worked? The same ones that mistreated him and abused him every day, he had the power to ruin them in one.

And he could hear it too, that dark side of him whispered it to him every day, to show those carnal, coital pictures in fluffled and magic hair of Emily with the CEO of the local branch, to let those papers and photos in his portfolio fly away, in the carelss, healing wind of August, that instinct to ruffle the feather was just so powerful and intoxicating.

No, he thought, that's not who I am, as despicable. NO

But they are sycophants, the dark side whispered to him, backbiters, liars and pretenders, self-rigteous rats, whose camouflage of birth, while blinding white, was as sooted and black as their rotting souls. Why do you care?

And he still felt some of the sadness, not much rage, but pitiful sadness and some regret taht he did not do it.

And he wanted to cry then, to crush the hopes of this sand-trailing cowards, worming like him, cockroaches of nigh-desert that had departed the city.

He wanted to crush their hopes and make them feel, as he felt.

But he resisted, he resisted, with several grinds of his teeth he resisted and plodded on.

He plodded on with a new beginning in mind, he would wander as long as he had to, to find a new Eden, a place where people who though maybe weak or just crooked in nature's strange ways could find shelter.

It was like an ark, then he thought asudden, imagining it wide over the desert shadowing dunes, an ark for the intellectual, the high-minded. The flood had passed laready, left behind in the thundering fever-wash of the countries' rejection.

In years past, in the voters arms the country had drowned in populism,that was what cnical historians said, new figures emerging that had gotten rid of anyone diffrent or "lesser."

And he was spared for an unfathomable reason, maybe ironically, he was simply forgotten.

But that misery was not forever, in the cries of war other countires had heard the raving of the maddened, the ill and consumed bull, the one enraged and diseased that was about to go feral.

And they put the city down.

He was there by chance, having no other place to go after his divorce, and the act of cruelty had saved him.

He and countless others, lower in their station, wokers of the shit, homeless rats and stinkers with the smell of dirt and death, were fortunate enough to had been hidden in the sewers of poverty-filled pauperdom. All this while the hum and drone of the armies overcame, the thunder and might of the seven-foot futurits' tanks and horseless valkyries who razed a circle, a circle of a white, hot and righteous rage of the world, the judgement of the uncalled passing over above.

And when the silence was finally felt, and they peeked their noses and heads above the ground, they looked to the west with such wistful eyes to the new and shining promised land.


PS: I know that Noah was the one with the ark