Prologue: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
The rich scarlet curtains draw back.
The stage lights jump on.
The crackling, rustic anthem booms. Its the same old track.
The swishing of the soft velvet opens the charade.
Her smooth and shadowy silhouette is a mouthwatering appetiser for what is to come.
Her glittering sequin shows her allegiance. You know what she wants.
She entices you with fantasies.
A land of milk and honey
A world of opportunities.
You know its all phony. But in this hour you want to believe.
The spotlight dimmers. You skim over the manifesto.
Its packaged so sensually with all the delightful models parading the deep scarlet, ivory and navy tones of this bustling party.
Earlier, my neighbour said “come on down, there’s something for everybody!”.
Oh give over.
Every carnal desire? Every fetish? Every necessity guaranteed and delivered in a synthetic pamphlet, courtesy of TRNSNTNL.INC?
Your eyes glance back at the stage.
You can see her trembling lips, puckering up to disguise the very she fear has promoted.
Her slender legs begin to buckle under the transfixed glares we are giving her.
Fragile, but not broken.
You may say she is weak, but we’re crying for a saviour.
We are the drooling, starved sharks.
But we do not ask for a distinct flavour.
Maybe in the past, those houses of pleasure could actually deliver the will of the audience.
But it is a mere ritual now.
Our tastes have watered down, they have become incoherent, ambiguous and without purpose.
Tonight, we have visited the pole.
We have watched her dance seductively and without grace. Subtly skipping past the darker and more pertinent requests.
Aesthetic satisfaction? Hardly.
A retired writer whispers to me, “that large ugly fluorescent elephant will probably still be here in four years…”
Next week, we will deliver our verdict at the polls.
The forecast seems bleaker than this overcast sky.
But at least we demonstrated our mind, we showed that we tried.
We thought her loss was our loss. After all, we were the crutches upon which she could stand.
If the media are the ones pulling the strings. Then can we really shield her from its gaze?
The polls may cast upon us a blanket of rejection.
If so, our saviour will be chosen at our next demonstration.
We thought she could have been our messiah, our special national lover.
Oh well. We will have to retake our seats.
Who knows what we might discover.
For this century is young, there will be others.