/lit/ - Literature

>>23218446

(2/2)
Do not think relaying your misgivings with them will garner you any sympathy, however. Oh, no. You’d be thoroughly misguided. Trust me, I’ve tried. One night, being quite inebriated and in a bit of a rebellious spirit, I embarked on lecturing my compatriots on the scruples I had with these little men and what steps should be taken to succour our peace once and for all. I became emboldened and defiant, brave even, and made grand energising speeches. What I was met with however was listlessness and derision. I couldn’t believe the blatant defeatism present. How complete these men had been broken. I became revolted, probably recognising some form of my own shortcomings in their indifference — my vicarious embarrassment quickly turned to an alcohol fuelled fury. This was not taken in kind. I was met with all sorts of accusations regarding my sanity and told to ‘Shut up’.

Even now, I realised, they serve their little men. Such is their denial, these pour sops, out of sheer complacency. A truth they can’t bear, unwilling ears turned to threats, such a shame, a brother they ousted, who vouched for them in vane. Handcuffed and routed, the little man jeering, they rejoice in their sin, I was brought to sleep off my drunkenness a night in the bin.

You might, however, be surprised to hear the relief I felt. Finally, I’d receive a short respite. A night alone. No little men in sight. Now, imagine my dismay when, after only two short hours, this little man, this cockroach, this nothing to be stepped over — apathetically scurried its way into my cell to taunt once more. The laughing. That vile, vindictive laughing. As if all the little men throughout the city were joining in encore. I was utterly dejected, joining the ranks of men whom I scolded but moments earlier, and finally admitted in all earnest that nothing but unremitted derision should be my portion. Fair to say, I never brought up the subject of little men in taverns again.