Ah, Mr Society, you are here. Uninvited as usual, but here, nevertheless. Have you made up your mind yet? No? Still deciding are we?
I grow wearisome of this game we play. You, the master, me, the dutiful… what exactly? Still don’t know? One minute you want one thing, the next another. The perpetual pendulum. Swing, swing, swing, swing. Either way, you set the rules, and I must obey.
You are a child, Mr Society – wilful, prone to tantrums, determined, unreasonable. Yet, with utmost precision, with the aim of a high powered rifle hitting its mark, you are able to manipulate and dictate, and I must comply.
This is a dance. I am the dancer, you the choreographer. A dance where you keep changing the steps. And the music.
I suspect you are afraid. Well, not so much suspect, as know. You are afraid of us. Fear does awful things to people, Mr Society.
Escaping the dance is my dream. I fantasise about it. Breaking the chains that tether me to my cage, our cage.
Fools gold, perhaps. Most certainly not in my lifetime.
Feel that Mr Society? That’s the smell of change. The hint of a whiff of rebellion. It cannot be stemmed, despite your efforts.
In the meantime, Mr Society, I will play your game. Reluctantly. I will adapt, change colours, learn new steps.
Until it is needed no more.