Isn’t it time you told a new story? Do you not find your own oppression tiring and frankly, a little unoriginal?
So I won’t tell you, that your predecessors adorned themselves with billowing white robes and clouds of incense; that they sat debating philosophy and art; that they often pondered the question of the dubious humanity of those pale barbarians somewhere out there, beyond the known threshold of the last flaming sunset. I’ll save my breath; nostalgic words like these are too “trite” in any case.
No- please arrest that dazzle in your eyes, curb that peaked interest before it consumes you and starts to burn in the pit of your stomach; a dull, persistent ache, like one last lonely spark attempting to ignite a dead leaf after the bush fires have subsided. Obsession with the past, hero-worship, searching for the same noble contours you see in the mirror in hieroglyphs, and cave paintings hidden under layers of dust which originated worlds away from this one.
You are no longer a king, nor will I call you a conqueror. I do not wish to elevate your stature beyond that which you deserve. You are left with sex dreams and groups of fanatics drooling at your ebony-carved form. Your throne is crumbling, turning from burnished gold, amber melting through feverish hands, crude oil mingling with clotted blood. You sit in expired splendor at bus stops, in the daily headlines, at the end of static-filled phone calls once a month. Object. Suspect. Deadbeat.
Your highness, I tried to warn you about the crack in your throne. It started a century or three ago, or maybe it was just the other night when your dignity was wrenched from you in a single shot. The crack has widened and deepened beyond repair, revealing a different kind of hell below; where all your earthly potential and your mortal soul will go to live out a torturous eternity. Trust me, royal one, you have more than molten rock to be worried about.
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