Revolution
[Updated: 24/01/10]
The world is very bland. Colourless really. A still picture in black and white. Silhouettes of lives move through that stuffed and claustrophobic corridor, moving barely with a shadow; though that glorious light radiating off of that great institution shines down upon them.
But it saps the colour out of them. Every one of them in that many populated corridor the same; all move from the start to the finish under that harsh and glorious light, unnoticed and unknown.
However, in those dark and concealed corners, where that light is not so harsh; where the corridor is not so confined. There are pinpricks of unity, of pride and of passion. But in that barren wasteland, we stir unseen.
There is no point in those many silhouettes, crawling pitifully under the whip of that blind and powerful light. There is no meaning to it; no purpose. Until we stand up and make ourselves whole, we leave no mark behind us.
That blind power didn’t notice what was going on until too late. Its indifference was its downfall. We rose up behind it’s back. Then struck. They plummeted to the ground. That vast authority was no more, that hideous light was gone, and the people rose up from the ground. To stand once more.
But slowly, that light re-emerged. From the darkness, those pinpricks of light grew again once their Eagle Standard was plunged into the body of that deceased power. It grew and grew until it became too harsh and bright, that the people became silhouettes once more, and fell to the ground. To crawl once more.
Again, for a time, the status quo remained. Suffering of indifference, as that new power grew more powerful, more glorious, and revelled in that staleness of ages past. It bent their lives to their will, became drunk on its own essence. Until, as before, in those twisted corners of the corridors of power, pinpricks of light emerged – unseen and unheard – and rose up, like a snake, to strike.
We stand there watching from across that great dark river of the boatman, watching the cycle repeat, and repeat. We marvelled at our past ‘existence’: for it cannot be called a life. Our passion never coloured the corridor red with joy and love... only the blood of ages past. That blood that can only be seen from the other side, that colours those damned corridors. Just as euphoria grips those many shrouded beings, they turn right around. A black knife in their back.
Someone else can probably say if all the punctuation and what not is correct because I don't really know many of those rules. 
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