Mis-ant-thropy

I hate them. All of them. All of them with their minute differences and perpetually perverse similarities. The variety amidst such mundanity is sickening. But what is one ant from the next? They work and toil for their allotted time on stage and then saunter off and let the next troupe take their place. Day by year by eternity, they mindlessly labor on their pitiful hills of dirt. And then their pathetic attempts at some lasting contribution to future generations is annihilated by a passing shower of Heavenly tears. No trace remains. Soon not even a memory. The dirt returns to the earth, new ants replenish the depleted remnants of past empires, and they build again. Always building, are the drones. Building or destroying. Tearing down each other's shoddy structures out of jealousy or rage or some warped sense of temporal "order." Rain or ants or God, it matters not. The memory, the thought, the feeling, the entire ludicrous purpose is forgotten. And yet, nothing is ever learned. Still they build their castles of sand.

I abhor them. Their stupidity appalls me. How blissful they are. No cares, no worries. Their almighty, omniscient Queen directs their preposterous steps, organizing their dances, pulling the strings to their hearts, minds, and souls. They never doubt her, never rise against her, never consider She could be unjust, immoral, or wrong. That thought is too immense for their insiginificant faculties. No, they march along and find some shallow delusion of "happiness" while inside they burn and yearn and churn out silent pleas for clemency. The Queen merely laughs. She enjoys every wail, whine, and fevered wish. She uses her pawns, playing an eternal game against herself, for She has no friends. She has no partner, only her game. She devises schemes and plots and paths and plans to take out her cruel bitterness on a random piece, one sacrifice at a time. They have no real meaning for her. They are merely tools and toys. And oh how She loves to play.

I despise them. I loathe their pairs, marching hither and dither with vacant expressions upon their glazed, idiotic faces. Nothing is said, nothing is done, just pairing and staring, aimlessly. They plague the world with their infernal silence. Oh, ants blather incessantly about who's doing what or whom or why, but it's impossible to hear the ignorant tripe they spew from their constantly churning mandibles. None of it has substance. None of it has any real meaning. Just like everything else that makes up an ant's life. All meaningless fluff. One ant dies, cries, loses, bruises, is eaten or beaten, cheated or defeated, unseated and repeated a million upon a trillion times until the Queen tires of her sadistic game.

I abominate them. I deplore their existence. But what can one do about these hordes of barbarians, fumbling in the dark for some way out of their colossal waste of a nest. Finally they obtain freedom, but the delusion is revealed to be only an extension of their slavery. They simply serve Her in different ways. And still, no matter how far they crawl, slither, or slump, they still serve. She plays them like a flute. The discord is a crime against consciousness. And how does she aid them in their eternal, mindless plights? She raises her magnifying glass and incinerates them, one at a time. Then their charred remains are eaten by their fellows and what is left? A memory? A monument? Some magnificent acme of art? A wonderous discovery with their tiny illegible name scrawled as the "first"? A boon to all antkind, a treasured and revered influence inspiring zillions of future antlings? No. Only ashes. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Check mate.