The Demagogue’s Son.

He rubbed his weary eyes with one hand, as he forced his body upwards, from the comfort of his bed with the other. After emitting a hushed groan, partially on the basis of the simple physical exertion, and partially due to the overwhelming darkness plaguing his tired mind; he looked around.

A lavishly decorated room presented itself before him.

The chamber held many signs, hinting at the presence of great wealth, full of priceless vases, ottomans, heirlooms, & armchairs; with a large intricately embroidered desk looming at the other end of the space, and portraits of dead nobles lining the walls on either side.

The man’s eyes drooped back down just a slight bit, for a moment, only to pop, almost wide open, and slip across the landscape around his bed, surveying the scene; which, he thought, stood by any means, exquisitely furnished, with a wide vaulted ceiling hanging above his head, and a brilliantly colored Persian rug beneath.

He knew it well.

This beautiful bedchamber was one which held many memories. Indeed, as was true with most places one called home, some of these mental recollections were simply grand, so warm, and ultimately inviting for the soul to revisit, that it seemed easy to get oneself lost inside of their happy confounds; then again, there were also those, which only brought pain upon his typically ironclad heart.

It was the home, which he knew as his own. Yet, the aforementioned was not only just his current place of residence. These lavish quarters, were, in fact, the very home, which he had been raised in, at least throughout his earliest years of existence. It was also the same structure which his father had lived in before him, a man wielding a particularly powerful influence on his sons.

In life, and even now, years and years after his death.

The sins of the father now hung over the man sitting alone in the morning twilight upon his bed, sins which had come to grow into monsters with the passing of years. Monsters, living eternally, all around him, usually remaining in a light slumber throughout the daylight hours, as they were, nocturnal for the most part. Monsters, that survived by feeding off of the darkest recesses of his soul; creatures which, at least for the last five years now, had threatened to consume him whole, evermore incessantly.

Yet; they had not.

…not yet.

He had never wished for his father’s power, and for a long while there was ultimately no reason to fear it’s corrupting weight; the very same load that now pressed down heavily upon the weary shoulders of his soul.

The power of his father, at least as it was processed & understood within the man’s own mind; had been acquired through sinful means, solidified in blood, and held-down by remorseless repression.

In the early years of the powerful son’s life, and then on up throughout his adolescence, the man had, in his own, essentially utterly useless, futile manner, fought with that power, constantly rebelling against his father’s orders. This was a father, like others, which brought his work home with him. The man was truly as much of an authoritarian . In many ways, although vastly different in the scope of things, he had been a victim of his father’s repressions nonetheless, along with the rest of those subjected to much more sinister, and physical, reprisals felt a sense of in years before, drenched his still-developing, young life with the expectations of his paternal master, to become his own. Never, had he, even back then, in those youthful years, viewed his father’s role as one which he wanted, or even held the ability, for that matter, to play himself. It is true perhaps, that he had undeniably held the man in great esteem, even admired his strength and the fear which surrounded it.

In retrospect, he felt this feeling of respect, was, all things concerned, only natural for a young son, regardless of the father’s status, occupation, or general disposition. It was the in the aftermath of his father’s passing, and his own consequent ascent to power, that the painful monsters languished.

He rubbed his sandy eyes one last time, then stretched out his arms in a very human, time-to-wake-up kind of way, and finally readjusted his body, to address the glowing light of an open laptop, highlighted against a backdrop, contrasted by the stark dimness of the room…

At times, this in fact being one of them, tired & weary of his inner frustration, tired of fighting against the tides of happenstance, of the cards whuch we are all dealt, seemingly at random, wave after wave, even if not openly; he concluded that at the root of his own concious torment, as indeed that of any other concious individual, be it the President or the pauper, the same melancholic answer presented itself.

We are but pawns of a destiny, one, which ultimately is granted at birth, and though some will, through Destiny’s tricky sister Fate, be blessed with potential to break from the solid chains of circumstance, even fewer shall be strong & wise enough to reach that Nirvana upon the mountaintop of existance to sit in complete peace at the core, utterely content.

As for the rest of us,

There is a natural tide of torment we must-come to terms with,

if indeed life stands worth living,

and simply carry on,

…once more into the breach.