Many war memorials and monuments were made in various fashions and degrees. Eternal flames, miles of tombstones in rolling hills, buildings, scultures, paintings and ever more artwork and theatrical pieces. There was always more room for monuments.
While there were a million statues of Karl Knutmudsen circling the globe. His bust and his visage became the most common thing everyone would awaken to and the last thing they would see when they went back to sleep, there were no monuments to me. And I am happy and made sure of this.
It's not coincidence that I never uttered my name, even my family name sake. Not so much to tarnish the legacy of Knut, nor to avoid it all the same. I just have no inclination for either and especially not a hideous statue of myself in some random park, further marred with my family name. I spent enough time staring at letters taller than myself standing when it was in the Grand Mural.
The Artesians to their credit rebuilt the Grand Mural and painstakingly repainted every detail. This was both impressive and terrifying as it made clear they had been among us all along and knew everything. They could only have gotten the little things right and it wouldn't be a surprise if they themselves were the original creators of the Grand Mural.
The Politiburo, Commissariat, the camps, everything was quite possibly their hoax on us. To prepare us for eventual assimilation into their ways. But that would be beautifully easy to believe if not for the aberration that they adulate and worship Karl Knutmudsen. And still doesn't make any sense how a movement could exist before its creator could even found it. I often thought out aloud that maybe Karl was just the biggest fool of them all and he didn't know what was going on. Maybe it was gibberish after all and the two of us were the only ones that realized it.
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