The Germanization of us all I fear is now inevitable.
I was at the front. I don’t know where we are now, or if there is a we. I assume there are others, but I do not see them. There has been some development of technology that the Germans have that we were not aware of, this much is clear.
We see what can only be called the perfection of the light bulb, a motorized connection between the operator and a typewriter which illuminates the walls in a most sickening shade of white. Judging by the humidity, we are underground somewhere. The water given is never enough, it always feels as if we are on the verge of dying.
Then of course there is the whirring.
A pale man dressed not in a military uniform talks about “mining bitcoin” with a wall of motors. We have not seen his superiors, but we believe he is German going by the accent. He looks at us and he smiles smugly. He will not answer our questions, but he has given us this paper to write on. He tells us to write what we want and he will take it to our loved ones, but we do not believe this. I am writing this and keeping it on my person, and am writing a second letter to give to the German.
I believe the war is lost. The whirring lets me know that there is something terrible here, the glow lets me know that something is being held from the world.
We see a light from the perfected lightbulb illuminate the German’s face. He will stare at it for three hours to four hours at a time, reviewing documents we believe. He glances at us and shirks back at the glow. I don’t believe he has seen battle or blood, he winces at prisoners. He is some sort of scientist.
I believe it has been three weeks judging by my sleeping cycles, but as there is no natural light I can not tell.
Only the glow. Only the sickly German. Only the whir of the mining equipment.
He has not struck us, and he has not asked for plans. This is just as well, as I have no real plans to give, maybe the German knows this. I do not like this German. I do not understand this German.
I can feel his sickliness, the German, not like a man in the front, or a man who has lost his wits, but something like a walking consumptive. More of a consumptive than a German. Then there is the whirring along with the consumptive, the glow along with the consumptive.
The consumptive, the whir, the glow.
The glow, the whir, the consumptive.
The whir, the consumptive,
the pale glow. The sickly white glow.
I will sleep. I will write more if there is more to write, but it seems unlikely that there will be more to write on it. This is the essence of it.
One thought on “1916”
He’s half a man. Not broken, but yet losing his courage/bravery one day at a time. If it was mounting a viable defense, probably say it could happen to anyone, even you!