In our fight against uniformity we sought for the unique, and ended up just like everyone else. A tattoo from a book was our passionate rebellion. That dirge of a pop song, the throwaway track nine from the debut album turned out to be everyone's secret favourite. Kitschcloth shirts with an embroidered "Gord" became a game of who could out cheese who. No one wins because everyone fights.
What wars we wage over bike lanes and the price of gas. 30-second full-page sponsored content making us out to be thieves and liars. How we rail at our enemy, the pickup truck driving carnivore and his six-pack habit. We, with our solutions of grandeur and our monoculture fuels. An attack right now seems the kind that opens us wide. The thrust will hit heart, but so will the bullet. None will arrive to announce that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
All that remains is our mutually assured destruction. Our battle just wears us all away, our thoughts frozen into stone then eroded by our own righteous storms. Who will be left the spoils of perfect debate: the praise of the choir we so carefully trained?
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