We build it up piece by piece.
Use the previous generations' remains like a macabre Ikea set.
Stack the spines and rib cages.
Trying to make it stand on its own two feet this time.
A big self-sufficient machine of death that can march mindlessly into tomorrow, so we're off the hook.
That's the fantasy.
Free us up to get wasted and then check out with a clear conscience.
Having unleashed this bonecrusher to keep on grinding without us.
Somebody else's problem when we clock out.
But we don't actually let our kids off that easy.
Keep them bound tight with trends and duties and ritualized tortures.
Basted and beholden to this giant boney monster of our own design.
The one we swore could walk itself if built right.
It's like we get off on weaving our own damn whips.
First we try assembling this freedom-bot from the dried out husks of our predecessors.
Then we pass the baton by reintegrating our offspring as the bloody fuel for its bone-milling agony.
Lashing their soft flesh to its iron haunches to reinforce the cycle.
We just can't let well enough be.
Not satisfied unless we're leaving our children shackled and flayed by the very machines we hoped would cut us loose.
There's some perverse itch to rebirth our own father's scourges.
Like picking a scab to catch that fleeting sting of relief before it bleeds again.
Each drop of vitality just fresh fuel for the bone-pulverizer.
Cheers 🍻
