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Artificial lights.

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Sep. 20th, 2013 | 12:07 pm
location: Pennsylvania.
mood: Pensive.
music: Manics songs. (From Despair to Where, Archives of Pain, Anthem for a Lost Cause, As Holy as the Soil, I Think I've Found It, Door to the River, Pretension/Repulsion, Bag Lady)

At the moment, I live in a post-apocalyptic, deserted rural wasteland. Rent is cheap, most of the stores fall into the Thrift and Dollar varieties, and the only place of substance is, as one might expect, WalMart.
It sits atop a hill. A winding road approaches it from a two-lane highway. The edges of this winding road are lined with anemic trees, wild wheat, and stalks of corn interspersed with all the inefficiency of accident. If approached by night, the edifice emits a pillar of uninterrupted light that leads the eye to heaven. Nothing competes with its brilliance, not even the stars.
It's not very good for the soul. Going in is worse.
Adverts selling hopes and dreams: Beauty, health, happiness, and skill. All paired with products claiming to grant those ends. Airbrushed, processed, posed photos promising realized dreams. The irony doesn't make me smile as much as it should.
And it leads me to despair, which is when I look around, when I try to find something, anything beautiful. The interiors of that chain are always built like warehouses, with great metal supports and pillars visible, in all their corrugated glory, to any eye with the bravery to look up from the endless sea of merchandise. At regular intervals, beyond these beams, you can see a series of glazed, white, pyramidal structures that point past the ceiling and into the sky. Their insides gape, empty spaces with no pretense.
What is this, I wondered. What is this oddity?
It seemed like an odd shred of honesty and hope. Being ignorant of architecture, I wondered at its purpose. Was it intended to allow light to filter in? The frosted white surface was surely not the best means to accomplish that goal, though I have seen bolts of lightning pierce its translucent surface. But that's lightning, and lightning pushes for attention with sound and fury. Not the weak light of day, with its passive illumination. And what purpose could such blind windows serve when night fell?
No more words. No conclusions. And I haven't written like this in ages. Apologies, whichever path is preferred. Lately my dual mantras of, "Everything is meaningless," and "Nothing is trivial," have been persuading me to fear my own words less.
But only less.

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