Defeat My Existence

What is defeat? What does it mean? And what would you call it if you never had a chance in the first place. Here there was no war, there was no fight, nothing so reasoned. Here there were no great battles, no explosions of primeval stupidities hurling themselves fiercely into the fray, vying for survival, the raw surge of adrenaline pushing physicality to it’s limits. Here equals never met, there are no stories of note and no heroes. At least not from your perspective. This is a space devoid of awareness, rife with myopias and superfluities, bleak and barren. Concrete and Steel. Decaying. Dying. Deprived of a narrative that hasn't been lost, contorted or manipulated by disinterest and your ‘necessities’. The quiet hum of the power line, the stifling clouds of diesel fumes rising. It didn’t always look like this. I have seen it.
See, you think that the iconic upland lunar landscape is a marvel, something wonderfully natural. Perhaps it’s emptiness promotes a stillness that you all crave and need. But this world wasn’t meant for emptiness, and one should not marvel at death. To stare in doltish awe at catastrophe is at first strange, but to then repeat the act is truly terrifying. You stare at deserts, the high dunes and mirages and see beauty; but not for the process that led to their existence, for true understanding would surely dwarf the superficial sensory deluge that they impose. What you don’t see is history and what was. The ecosystems and lives that flourished and the fires, scorched earth and collapse that left only a few alive.

Defeat My Existence

I look at my home, my own mist-clad, treeless kingdom; my own desert. I belong to this land, as did my ancestors before me, it gave us life, it gave me life. But all that is gone now. The sun has forgotten this place and the last tree fell long ago. I am the last, robbed of dignity and abandoned to the hourglass as time marches indefinitely towards the end of my kind. But I feel not anger or vitriol, just sadness. I came to this place to feel the past, to remember what used to be, for quiet. But you found me (of course you did), damaged and without purpose, yet saw and continue only to see me as a stimulating wreck to flex your intellectual egos. Pointing and prodding me with your lenses. Clearly my story is difficult to understand in context, my silence confusing and my body language obtuse. The great Sapiens unable to crack the code of my anguish...or maybe just unwilling, or worse...unaware. The battles that took place here will never be in your history books.
So here’s something that requires your contemplation:
The ignorant infant sits on the self-appointed throne of all creatures, and with effortless indifference destroys the hand that feeds - and defeats my existence.