Everyone in the world right now is either asleep or awake, unless you count the tweeners who are just waking up or just falling asleep. To the ones who are falling asleep I say, Sleep tight. To the ones who are asleep I whisper, Sweet dreams. To the ones who are waking up I say, Good Morning. To the ones who are awake I say: Your eyes are open and your mouth is moving but is anyone home?
You hear the words that are spoken but do you hear the heart of the speaker? You parse my sentences with a freshly caffeinated brain but is your heart engaged? Are you not just intellectually but also emotionally and sensually engaged with the full meaning of this moment? Are you truly awake or are you still living in your past? Do you know what a magical and miraculous being now sits in your chair and walks in your shoes? Or are you still bound in the hide of the loser you always knew you were? Part of the fifth column of those who are walking and talking in their spiritual sleep, the undead.
You know who you are. You enjoy watching fliks about zombies because they remind you of your neighbours and they make you feel superior. Also they enable you to watch the graphic destruction of a semi-human form without risking social censure. Because everyone wants to get rid of the zombies. Zombies stand in place of all the people you really hate but can’t attack because your freedom is hobbled with laws against hate crimes and the decorous facade of political correctness. So you get your shotgun or axe and waste them zombies but you don’t really hate them; in fact you admire them because they are free to attack all living human beings which is what you really want to do.
Why do the undead hate the truly awake? Because we enjoy life, at least some aspects of it. We know that the past is gone and death is just around some corner but life is now. And we dig it. We suck it to the marrow. We celebrate all the opportunities for pleasure, however few, that life sends our way.
You don’t live your life but cower inside your shrinking hide and jerkily go thru the motions of being alive. You compose your undead face into a mask of good humour and insinuate yourself into business, education and governments that are run by clever zombies like yourself. You join the Bears or the Tigers or some other benevolent boys club like the Conservative Party and quietly emanate hatred wrapped in words of kindness and charity.
You drink with your fellow zombies in the military heroes bar and joke about all the groups you love to hate. You amass as much real property as you can get your paws on while real people are forced to feed themselves at food banks and you pressure governments to reduce funding for the jobless, homeless, elderly and children in need, while you pour money into fighter jets, phony wars against imaginary enemies, police budgets and prisons.
Convinced that this present life is unlivable you spend your private moments playing war games and dreaming of an imaginary golden past or some future post-cryonic resurrection in a gleaming paradise of right thinking, team players like yourself where you and your fellow undead will ride around in gold plated Hummers under the lifeless gaze of an ancient undead god whose breath smells like the crematoria of human flesh and dreams behind the iron gates of his face.