factbat.com

In the floridly quizzical bastion of ambivalence that appears to be Mohammar Gadhafi, what is absolutely astonishing is that he is little more than a lacquered corpse, fueled by anger and vengeance. He can be heard railing on for over an hour and a half about the alleged abuses of others in a speech to the United Nations in 2009, apparently oblivious of the irony.

His long winded oration is saturated with rhetorical questions, one after another, inquiring of a room full of headphone-wearing bureaucrats who are not in any way prepared to respond. However, it is clear that Gadhafi only intended to prognosticate a symptomatic world he never truly understood.

Gadhafi spoke of atrocities as if he were some voice of reason, or pacifist son of somnolence whom has walked a life of peaceful portent. However, his many displays of meager insight, along with egregious acts of brutality against innocent, unarmed men, women and children whom were murdered at his request, show him to be completely detached from, if not utterly repulsed by, the honor and transparency he portends are critical to social order.

This Libyan-born potentate who has led his people into desperation, denial, paranoia and poverty is a remarkably indolent practitioner of the stability and sanity he demands in full from others. There is little about the man that doesn't absolutely scream "liar"; the stench of deception emanating from every pore of his callously crafted, supplicant outer layer.

He preaches his oft-imprudent ideas from a feebly ordered ideology, opining of subjects he clearly has heard, but never seen, nor understood. He pontificates in broken monologues like that of a practiced haggle of hypocrisy, shading his halls of heathery hanged victims with morbid accusations intended to endear himself to the guardians of the defenseless, seducing them with savory sentiments that obscure a sanguine sadism, lusting for infant flesh.

Gadhafi is a mere persona of a trial mind, triggered by reflections of his own syndicated selfishness. He is the epitome of that which exists only as testament to a soul of loathing, promulgated of regret and remorse for himself alone. He has not the pride of the common beggar, nor the courage of a cow; a truly empty soul who's vacuous hollows could never survive absent the praise of others.

It is no wonder he has for so long begged and pleaded with his people to worship him, searching for any possible pacification, some adulatory parlance to stave off the palpable ignorance that terrorizes his every glance into the pools of time.

This is a man who would betray his own mind if it were but deft enough to shield him form the truth that his is a deserted soul, satisfied with tortured smiles from the lips of his beloved.

For goodness sakes, the man even authored a rambling book of veritable mental sepsis that reads like a deck of cards that, if shuffled any number of times, would produce identical impetus fueled by equally symmetrical and simplistic idioms.

This verdant tome of turbidity is little more than a tacit display of childish curiosity, bent by the sedentary adolescence of a juvenile mentality bound to the requisite reparations of a disheveled dime store ego. One could easily expect its author to launch a full inquiry into the riddle of the chicken and the egg. However, only as an investigation into whether either of them are pliant enough to warrant his grace.

Gadhafi has proved himself to be a waste of life, an arrow of time shot into empty space; never to return to his senses due to the simple fact that he is not the master of his destiny, as his irreverence for the mechanics of retrospect has robbed him of the honorable insight that is the precursor to an evolving outlook.

So unfortunate that the nation of Libya must now pay his crimson debt of shame in order to win their independence.

Stand strong, freedom fighters of Libya. Sow the seeds of sagacity deep within Gadhafi's sordid and soiled regime, and cultivate the fires of defeat upon his house.

Break this beast creeping among the shadows, seeking to feed on the newborn flesh of freedom. Roar with the fury of a matriarchal heart cornered in the womb of the den, and shatter the parched and pestilent bones of this despotic dictator upon the walls of a new Libya.

May the force of the white sun guide thee, and the crushing vortex of a thousand black holes churn within your souls...feeding a tempest of brilliance the likes this regime has never seen.

To life, logic and luminosity ... to a WORLD of FREEDOM!