Hope, ever last into the casket, dismisses the warning. “He is a dreamer.” For what power is there in dreams, those fleeting visions from a world unbridled, a world so unlike our own? After all, a dream dreamt is soon forgotten as the weight of a world that is not of our making discards the fabric ere it fall into the hands of the weavers.
Half-despaired, half-frenzied, all-starved, we ask upon what meat do these, our Caesars, feed that they have grown so great? This dish, whose unbound strength can be found only in its binding, is nothing less than the very synapses and sinews of our body politic. Simply kept, it is not they who are strong but we who are weak. “Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Reader, is not in our stars, but in ourselves— that we are underlings.”
What is taking us so long? The answer is in the question. Us. But what begins as a whisper under the breath to the mirror ends together screaming peace for a time we’re no longer willing to waste. Listen, now, as they stagger madly about, their thoughts flailing, vainly striking for us, their minds’ eyes unable to adjust to the light we’ve shed on proceedings.
“The ides of March are come.
“Aye, Caesar, but not gone.”