Binary

Imagine it like this:

Breathe in, Breathe out.

Was there a choice in that,

more accurately, does there exist an alternative option?

When presented with absolutes

—right/wrong, right/left—

there remains no viable alternative.

The trick is in the presentation—

in the facade of choice.

Like rats let loose within a maze,

we venture towards an elusive center,

pantomimed from above with dangling carrots and cheddar scents—

yet our final destination remains the same.

Perhaps it's a flaw in the ideology,

more likely, it's a corruption of an ideal.

When superstructures of power exist in binaries

—for the collective duration of their existence—

then one must wonder at the construct of choice.

It is a clever ruse,

the concept of elective power existing,

but that suggests we exist freely, with myriad outlets and alternatives.

Yet, history reveals the real tragedy:

That our very nature is founded on binary notions

played out over time,

and ultimately manifesting itself in our most sovereign of decisions.

We adhere, valiantly, to the tragic possibility that shades of gray are a tangible ethos

—we devour it and defend it—

for the alternative is the cyclic somnambulist that is our system.

If year after year villains and heroes play out a duality of dogmas,

then there leaves little room for anything other than a conscripted outcome.

We believe earnestly in our myopia,

the potency of our choice

—deem it a maxim most sovereign—

yet such credence is continually undermined by binary's inherent immutability.

Whatever outcomes inevitably play out are but pre-orchestrated cycles—

simulacrums of free-will offered to placate minds

rarely bothered with the burden of foresight.

It's a travesty of convenience,

one devoid of conscience, but ultimately inevitable.

We spend our lives attempting to rationalize a species,

that by its very nature is irrational.

We carry on charades of diligence and duty,

vest fully in our rights and cartas magnum,

yet the ebbs and flow of this sea pale in comparison to the riptide machinations.

They pull, push, coerce, and spend freely amongst sins and virtues,

leaving us—the consummate flotsam—

to endure the storm's cyclic throes.

Much the same way a martini is merely a more dignified double shot of booze

—swirled and ornately presented—

we strive to validate a system, that while birthed in idealism,

has fallen prey to humanity's primal flaw:

Binarism