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Our Flame will never be Extinguished

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Are you on fire? Travel Sketches by metamodernist artist JJFBbennett

Our Flame will never be Extinguished

The chosen elite who entered the rotting, worm-eaten confessional to seize the primrose were never saviours sent to bring lasting peace or settled order. That was merely vanity blazoned across their heraldry. In truth, they were the indispensable stewards of the loop, anointed not to break the wheel, but to ensure its teeth kept grinding. They took the pale, delicate bloom, the Acclimatisation Society’s consecrated symbol of subjugation, fully aware that planting it within the unyielding ironstone would provoke the very friction keeping the world aflame. They required the transgression; they needed the spark. For the empire does not endure by resting in triumph, but feeds upon the perpetual, exhausting struggle of its own unfinished conquest.

As rebels swarm the grand, baroque plazas and consume the cathedral of yesterday, they believe they are dismantling their oppressors' fortress. Raising torches, they watch ancient spires dissolve into a tempestuous, crimson blaze, shouting defiance beneath the banner of an unquenchable flame. Yet even as they smash the leaded-glass Wardian cases and tear imported roots from the earth, they unwittingly lay the scorched groundwork for the next epoch.

By reducing the old cathedral to ash, they generate the precise fertile ground from which the next vision must rise. The spectacular violence of their resistance becomes a new myth, a fresh trauma, and an unhealed wound that future apostles will invoke to justify their return.

In this spiralling enterprise, the replant at Pine Creek is not a culmination, but an export. Even as the flames crest, the psychological shockwave, which is the desperate, ungrounded static of a rebuilding empire, surges backward through the telegraph wires of the established order. The crash of falling glass and the roar of the crowd do not fade; they are compressed into a silent, haunting echo travelling through the spine of the continent.

This infectious pulse uncoils along the black, melting bitumen of the Stuart Highway, carrying the ghost of the established vision deep into the desert to enforce order. Figures trudge through the blistering furnace of forty-five-degree heat, haunted by calcified memories of past collapse. Yet the boundaries of the void do not shrink; they expand with every failure, ensuring that any vision of "Home" remains forever undermined by what came before, bound to reset, replant, and burn all over again.


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John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett, is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art. 


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Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the sponsor's written permission is prohibited.




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