Purpose is a Dream
by Daniel Beadle - Thursday, September 6, 2007
Stalker stands in a garage, surrounded by 12-year-old children. The counselors and adults charged with supervising the youngsters converse among themselves. Stalker takes it upon himself to preach to the children.Stalker moves to the driveway as the kids stare at him with a vague sense of reverence. He begins his rant with notions of purpose, until he falls to the ground and begins banging the pavement with his fist, desperately trying to jam his thought home.
“Life has no purpose!” he shouts, “Your life has no purpose. My life has no purpose.” Stalker’s voice fades. “None of us deserve to live.” He is on the verge of tears as he says this, and makes his way back into the garage.
Stalker rummages through the debris of equipment and produces a clunky, homemade flamethrower. He turns it on the children, but the igniter is broken. In pulling the trigger, he only manages to spray the children with the thrower’s flammable liquid. They stand there, transfixed at this frenzied man. Stalker searches frantically for another weapon, but a counselor grabs his shoulder, pressing him for answers behind his odd behavior.
Stalker takes the counselor aside, beginning an explanation that goes nowhere. He clutches her hair, and in one fluid motion, slams her head into the hood of the car. She collapses to the floor as Stalker continues his frantic search. His frustration leads to cursing: “Jesus fucking Mary…” He trails off, muttering, “Joseph…” Suddenly, he remembers a religion that he never stopped believing in. And in that instant, he recognizes an underlying order, and a purpose to humanity’s continued existence. He immediately becomes distant, and discovers a new sense of self-loathing that he never knew before.
Stalker wakes up, slumped over his dashboard. He looks around in a hurried confusion. It’s the black of night, and his truck is pulled over at the side of a quiet highway. “Life has… meaning?” He shakes the thought. “It wasn’t real.” He looks around one more time. “Just a dream.” He swallows. “Purpose is just… a dream.”
“The dream fades. It has gone, a memory on the frayed edges of sleep.”—Grant Morrison
