I hail from a colony where we were raised to follow orders. Where our thoughts were not our own if they strayed from the chain of command.
Some of us followed for so long we fell in love with it... because it was easier to be thought for, interpreting it as being thoughtful.
Up and down, round and round we built the castle that imprisoned us and called it home.
And anyone who thought otherwise was ostracized to make sense of their delusions alone.
If we lived to see the next day then somebody up the command hierarchy was doing something right... is doing something right.. because you see, I'm still watching the anthill consume our dying dreams because apparently, having a mind of our own is toxic to the routine; hazardous to the 'order' of things.
Change was unpredictable and undeniably unwarranted considering the circumstances.
So we fought against it with as much vigour as we employed in fighting old age.
We loved the structure... and like any good building it's beauty spawned from it's quality to remain unchanging, for a time at least.
But sadly we are not buildings, our skin wrinkles much faster and the creases across our foreheads will only tell stories of regret.
Is it too late we wonder, Is it too late?
