So he was a Prince. With the shiny shirt and the tight jeans and all that.
And he had a horse.
And a castle.
And a evil step mother.
And the helpless father.
And the poisoned apple.
And then the Princess he fell in love with.
And the midgets that surrounded her.
And then the breaking of the spell.
None of this was his choice of course. It was that man’s idea. That man’s choice. ; The man who pulled the string. He was just one of that man’s puppets. And instrument of for his mere contentment ( or that of his audience, rather).
So to think what the little puppet really wanted ? He might have preferred a pink T shirt and beach shorts and to be a rock-star. Instead of being another victim of the cliches of the society. Prejudices that overwhelmed the society and cling on to human souls and individual thoughts like blood sucking parasites had conquered his sovereignty of choice and no one questioned him, no one asked for his opinion, no one, none at all heard his voice. Possibly owing to the silence that he was pregnant with after a exasperating himself battling a war that he knew he wouldn’t win. So the only voice that was in his defense ( that being his own) was silenced. Manifesting the parasitic doctrines of the society.
He lifted his right hand now. Because that man wanted him to.
He lifted his left leg now. Because that man wanted him to.
He got on top of a sickly pale horse. Because that man wanted to.
He fought the midgets. Because that man wanted him to.
He bowed as the audience burst into a monstrous applause with silence that screamed for freedom, Because that man wanted him to.
So that man told us the story of the Prince and the Princess and the kiss and the white horse and the poisoned apple and the midgets…..
The puppet told us the story of our lives. The one that we call ours. The one that we’re living to make the parasitic high priests of the society smile.
We’re living a dead man’s life.