in which the second-in-charge takes lead

when the white man came to the western lands, when the white man came to the desolate isle of australia, they brought with them many things to tempt and seduce the indigenous people. perhaps, the promise of trinkets and the threat upon life were sufficient, but as all white men were, and some continue to be, there is no game in dissuasion, no certainty in false pretense, unless you have the proverbial ace in the hole. and that was manifest in cheap, adulterated and watered down beer. for the native americans, for the aborigines, for the indigenes of many aplace, your vice is alcohol.

when the world was young, and when people are not yet old, there are many predispositions on life that we do not conceive until age has bittered the mind and seasons have tainted the skin. as for those who dare to grow but resist to grow up, there is a special place in hell for us, and this place is known as earth. upon which we are continually, if not continuously tormented with a burden so harsh, so slate, that we have given it a name, and if you have not come to know of it, you will with age, and it is known as responsibility. for all men, especially those who assume power where they should not, for the presidents and ministers and kings and sultans, for the pharohs and maharajas, for the many among us all, your vice is violence.

when there was gender roles, unlike defined today, barring the homogeniety we falsely thrust upon the separate sexes, there may have been (i say with caution, in assuming the best in people, where i do not believe) irrepressible desire. and when the physique of man counted for more than what the tongue has to say, or the mind has to think, then by all purpose, intent and means, does the disinhibition of such longing take manifest. for the men, and man, sometimes to include women, but i highly doubt so, your vice is lust, and sex.

when there are many things to give upon us, the troubles and woes of the world, where indeed there should be none. where there is complication over the simplicity that is life, than many of us shall fall and have fallen, succumb to the nature of what the layman knows as stress. and for all the stressors in life, there is escapism, but unlike the indigenous and their liquid of lurid manifestations, there has to be something stronger, more potent and classier than simple, dousing potions - and the world introduces its brother: for the aristocracy of sinners, your vice is in drugs.

when there were things to consider, and decisions to make, we are often put in situations where the lesser of us are revealed, and the greater among us are rebuked. and all that comes with success is apparent (and apparently) not worth the sacrifices in idealisms. assuming one has any to begin with. for those who were pure, and righteous, and true, for those against whom a taint was never knew, your sins are aplenty, from foods, to words, to backstabbing, to knavery, to money - your vice is yourself.

when i am alone in this world, and a hand reached out is the same hand thwarted with emptiness, unbeknownst to even you, who glances passingly at it as if it were nothing. when i feel that there can be nobody else who can ease the haunted sleep and unwaking dreams. for me, my vice is my muse - and that is you.