Narrative (too long but maybe submit anyway)

For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect or solicit belief. Yet, heed my words, young revolutionary.
I was young once; alive; and freethinking. I believed myself more clever than my forefathers, more perceptive than any who had come before. The world seemed to carry itself with cruel simplicity, its injustices infected, gaping wounds for all to see. I believed myself a revolutionary, with all of my pamphlets and suppressed papers hoarded carefully, to be read and reread. I believed in a better land over the hillside, a land of plenty, a land where the profit earned by the work of the people went to the people. I dreamed of a great redistribution, and longed for harsh retribution against those who seemed to pull the twisted strings. The secret police took some of my comrades, seemingly reaffirming my hate.
The world seemed to be made up of two types of people: us and them, good and evil. Some friends tried to sway me from my black and white world. They tried to tell me that there was no them, that everyone was part of the us. That we should look upon them as brothers. They tried to tell me that the "them" I so longed for did not exist; that I was chasing shadows. But I could not be moved, I was so stubborn and sure in my beliefs, in my pamphlets. I see now that both I and they were wrong. The world is not made up of us and them, and it is also not made up of just us. The truth is that there is no us: there is only them.
But I did not understand that, I was so overwhelmed by the simplistic mindset rotting my brain. I was a believer, blind to the world and my comrades, lost in my faith. I sank deeper. No longer were the pamphlet's hoarded, I had long since memorized the lines. Now I spread the propaganda to counter that of the state. Every word became more ingrained into my being as I lost childhood friends one by one. They seemed blind to the injustices committed against the people, so I traded them in for comrades, for allies. Friends were no longer necessary, I reasoned, if they did not understand.
I sat in underground meetings, breathing the dusty cellar air, plotting the states fall, plotting a glorious new rise. I made bombs, procured weapons, worked protesting crowds to a frenzy, sent spies into the darkest circles of our enemy as circles darker still formed under my eyes.
And on one fateful day, already forgotten by history, we built the barricades, used the stockpiled bombs and weapons. We overthrew the corrupt state, and the stifling pressure which had filled me rolled away, filled only with joy.
Things were to change, every meal was to be a feast; we were give back the power to the people, to the workers, to the third estate. We would move quickly to open the gates of prosperity. And indeed, moves were made...
But... our leaders, the original revolutionaries, the great planners of our victory began to see things in a different light. The secret police, while officially disbanded, had merely changed location and name. Apparently they could serve the people, if properly retooled. They would bring the ideas of the revolution to every corner of the land, and would root out the plotting loyalists still among us. Who could argue with that?
The factory owners, once decried as the bringers of injustice, were turned out or killed. New, loyal party members began managing the factories. Their families filled the newly vacant mansions, their children wore the smoothest silk, and the workers still wore the coarsest of fabrics. The wheels must turn, they said, and we work all the time. How could I argue? I had followed their authority since the time of my youth, I could not bring myself to question it, no matter what I saw. Time went on, emblazoned with this uneasy balance within my mind.
Soon enough, the people began to mutter, the rank stench of revolution filled the air. I had chosen my path; I was too old, too blind to change- even if the you, the new revolutionaries, had allowed me to join. My belief was broken, I had seen more then enough of the work of my comrades. But I still clung to its empty shell like a drowning sailer to a raft.
Soon, another day came, more barricades, more bombs. Some of my comrades were killed on the spot, others, like me, were thrown into the cells, for a public execution at a later date. This wass, apparently, meant to build morale for the new state. I hear that the secret police are still alive and well, that the big homes have still not been torn down. The wheels still turn, they always do.
And I sat in my cell, and I let them turn. And for the first time in my life, I examined myself and the work I had done. I opened my eyes to my blindness, and accepted my fate. I will die today, at 3:30, in market square, by the hangman's noose. Life will roll on, the wheels will still turn, the people will go on as they always have.
I can now see the "them" which I so hated in my youth. I can see "them" all around me, and within me. They are smiling. I will be happy to see the small p[art of them living within me die. Kill me today, young revolutionary, but do not follow my path. For the most wild, yet most homely narrative I have penned, I neither expect not solicit belief. But heed my words, young revolutionary, watch yourself and your comrades. "They" live in you as well, they live in all of us. Watch them.