Manifesto

Zlier Dukowski was perched at his massive mahogany desk, a sanctuary of self-reflection and realization. His cat, the eternally aloof Syllogism, was lounging on a nearby sun-drenched window sill. A look of intense contemplation etched his brow as he stared at the blank document on his computer screen.

“The time has come, Syllogism,” he declared, fingers poised over the keyboard. “It’s time to bring my own brand of enlightenment to the masses.”

And so, he began to compose what would eventually become the manifesto of his own cult. He let his fingers dance across the keys, churning out a stream of complex and cryptic sentences that no ordinary mortal could hope to decipher.

“Surely,” he mused aloud, “the quest to understand the world, the desire to systematize knowledge, must lead the seeker down the rabbit hole of existential madness. Only those with a predisposition to disrupt the status quo would dare to fathom the unfathomable.”

He paused, glancing at what he had written. It sounded right, but not quite right. The cat gave him an unreadable stare, its green eyes reflecting the computer screen. Zlier sighed and continued.

“But to label such aspirations as inherently flawed? Too simplistic. We are victims not of our noble causes but of our all-too-human tendencies. We are the architects of our own downfalls.”

He glanced at the text again, a smirk playing on his lips. Too complex, too lofty. He sighed, deleting the paragraph. The cat yawned, stretched, and jumped onto the desk, casually swiping at the mouse.

“Thank you, Syllogism,” Zlier said, amused. “Maybe I am overthinking this. Let’s try again.”

He looked at the text and took a moment to formulate his thoughts. Then he started typing again.

“The noble cause does not make its followers immune to the traps of human nature. We are, after all, still bound by the same foibles. In the absence of constant vigilance, our higher aspirations decay, like a rotting fruit forgotten in the fridge when the power goes out.”

He read what he had written, smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “That sounds more like it, doesn’t it, Syllogism?” The cat, of course, offered no comment. Its attention was now entirely focused on the mouse pointer moving on the screen.

Dukowski began typing, his thoughts weaving themselves into words on the digital canvas of his screen.

“Consider the concept of group dynamics,” he wrote. “The ingroup-outgroup dichotomy is a fascinatingly complex dance of human behavior. No cause, no matter how noble, can escape the pull of this gravitational force.”

His eyes flicked over the sentences. Too abstract. He deleted the paragraph, sparing a glance at Syllogism who was busy grooming its paws. A more concrete example was needed, something tangible.

“In simpler terms,” he continued, “every cause is like a rubber band being stretched. One end pulls towards the promise of a new dawn, the other clings to the remnants of the old order. In between is the struggle to maintain the tension, to not snap.”

Satisfied, he looked at the cat for approval. Syllogism blinked slowly, a feline version of a nonchalant shrug.

Zlier turned his attention back to the screen and wrote, “The more we stretch the rubber band, the more the tension increases, and the greater the effort required to keep it from snapping back. It’s a herculean task that demands constant vigilance and unyielding resolve.”

This time, he didn’t erase anything. Instead, he pressed on, the intensity of his words growing with each sentence.

“Because the moment we slacken, the moment we let go of the rubber band, it snaps back, dragging us into a whirlpool of regression, back to the familiar ground of the cult attractor. We become slaves to our own entropy.”

Feeling a wave of satisfaction washing over him, Zlier leaned back in his chair, locking his eyes with Syllogism’s.

“And that, my feline companion, is the struggle of human advancement. The cosmic dance of chaos and order, the push and pull of innovation and tradition.”

The cat, as always, offered no judgment, simply purring in response. But for Zlier, the purr was an affirmation of his musings, the echo of his thoughts in the void. The manifesto was coming along nicely, he thought. The Cult of Dukowski was just a few keystrokes away from taking over the world. Or at least, from making it a bit more interesting.