“Seize the means of production!”

“Overthrow State Power!”

“Overthrow the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie!”

“Socialism is the future!”

Hahaha, if slogans be the food of ideology, then give me less of it, for it numbs the intellect and feeds the indolent. How my mind used to recite those words every now and then, they found life as a prayer, with the hope that the words of this prayer would translate into an immediate future. I had found solace in the written parables of Father Karl Marx and his right-hand Friedrich Engels as proselytized by various prophets of the Marxian faith. They filled me with a joy and hope that one day, the Revolution will take full swing and the capitalist class will be no more and the last capitalist we hang will be the one who sold us the rope.

Now this prayer has reduced itself into a slogan, its’ limbs dwindled within my lips, for I no longer pray. Not because I’ve become less of a believer, but because I’ve become less of an optimist. Pray tell me how can I be optimist of the Revolution when the so-called prophets of the proles have become the aspirant bourgeoisie. I’ve seen and caught them with their pants down, making sweet love to each other, their bodies colliding in common tempo, grabbing and caressing one another, the Prophet feeding his/her lust of unbridled opulence, the Bourgeoisie feeding her/his lust for unending dominance and control. No regrets, no regards, no shame.

The masses are again on their own. Reduced to a state of stultifying dormance. They watch as the two fondle each other, without any form of moral outrage, for they have been duped into mindless consent. The academics (so-called intellectuals) watch from their ivory towers like voyeurs, as they derive a sense of cerebral & erotic pleasure from these carnal acts. They can’t wait to shove it into our faces that “there’s nothing we can do about this. It is what it is.”

Well, they don’t have to tell me, for I already know. Allow me to go into my abode and pray one last time. This time my prayer won’t be celebratory, nor will it be hopeful, or prophetic nor utopian. This time my prayer has grown a new pair of limbs, the limbs of a pessimist!