Teleology's an anticipation of a pay-off. A free expression doesn't need ulterior motive, sometimes just a great big perturbation. There's nothing more abusive than a truth that's not elusive. Should you catch it take a rest and liquid else yer cursed so go to hell or somewhere even more insipid.
It's said the gods themselves were one-time titans, and then they got religion when mighty titan force was no longer sufficient to sustain the realty of kingly or more philistine estates from invasions or assassinations; when habit proved too fickle as the new invaders were oft' the miss-content of what was formerly an outward trickle, "good form or good riddance!" no longer suitable, the Truth was invented: what cropped up now and then was henceforth to be a universal. Of necessity were there priest-kings, then on Egypt's fine example, realigned into religion and after many corpses came the all infallible, The Reason, good for use in any season.
Good reasons always need a partner, so our Hegel once had said. Synthesis is fabrication, a structure placed upon the dead. Before offing old Goliath, young Prince Dave was prob'ly no more an itinerant goat-herder than the giant, Honest Abe had been a logger (he was a lawyer), but since the Yellow Emperor, history's written as an epitaph a'top some speechless heads, but only by the conqueror after vanquishing the Rebs.
As a means to classify (with the singular criterion) now by nature folks divided along lines of status, race and gender, impiety and treason or for any handy reason. Such was Greek democracy (and someone, always trickling upward, both works and pays and to this day, to prey and pray sound just the same – it's sequestration mixed up with well-timed negotiations). With new smarts and realizing the error of their old ways, it hadn't after all been war which needs defeated, but peace in any season – what stays inside is justified, without is bad, none could deny – enclosure laws and prison walls are for our own good, and that's always been the greater, inner peace now means "security", or what's in or done for, favour. Whatever's in the basket, it's the same – protection racket. There's always risk. Sometimes it is a bomb, sometimes you miss.
Railroad trains and freeways only interfaced equivalent absurdities, the illusion you can freely move to new and different prisons, I mean cities. Once the righteous good, now it's the baddies hiding 'neath a hood or up against a wall with red and blues a'flashing, crashing through them. It's all the same, and every time it comes around it's different. It was war that birthed the structures, made them all rigid and regal, kept them straight and narrow, lines a'crossing space as if a symbol forever thing eternal (but that's internal "aye's" as in "Because I said so"), and not to lose the point, the arrowhead's a reminder of our history and grammarists use it to control the meaning which is "generate": for every child the question's "Why?" – before a corpse of course it looks like this ––> and then the X, the spot of all degeneration.
As rows and columns preceded all accountants, suits and pigs, so now they've come around again back to the tried and true, the lethal, proving only that a straight line can come back on itself like a spiral made of squares. But it's all illusion: the space had bent at right angles so no one really lost their place (a swerve depends on curves), and pretty soon we all can live in the big outdoors of outer space, that is, when we can alter it, conform to our position which has always been the goal in any race for new material. There's no going back, all else has been forgotten – high or low, for all it was for bidding, like once upon a time they only meant "for having" and "for asking". The most important word 'twas lost was "smithereens": what happens to all multifarious union is corruption, that certain dissolution of controllers of the mean or what's in fashion.
Today's Mythic narrative was called The Idiocracy, and everyone believes it might just be the last to be. Controllers have departed 'cross the cryptic overseas (it may be near Miami) and Dunderheads, that race of con-patrols and the richest you will see, the one-time petty burgeoisie've been left no reins for which to hold or lead, they've gone quite raving and unstable, and all that will remain may soon be called The Uncontrollables. But there's still hope for rectal types to get up, wipe their ass, regain their youth, to dig out with a hook or ladder, perseverate along the lines of truth, which now we know is just construction work and for some others, letting loose your bladder.
Or not. It's probable at some point anything can rot except the truth, for that's impossible as there's no more points beyond this dot.
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