Mala tempora currunt, from the Latin “we’re running into bad times”, is a phrase, often repeated in an explanatory tone, to lament the sadness of the period or difficulties in certain circumstances.
The old prince drags himself dying within the walls of his palace. His perfidious servants, the demons, help him to stand on shaky legs: a shame has been thrown on his kingdom that he had dreamt and built for millennia. Baleful omens, tragic premonitions, black clouds gather over the capital of the Matrix. Its followers tremble, fear mows down its victims like a ruthless reaper in the ranks of the demonic army. No one is excluded, no one is safe. First ten, then one hundred, then one thousand go into depression in the same hours in which the prince himself mourns the still warm corpse of the kingdom he conceived and created in his perfect image and likeness.
The leaders of his army, once semi-deities worshipped and honoured almost as much as he is, join in the mourning. It is now a state funeral in all respects. Everyone beats his chest, forced to take refuge in the depths of the abyss. It is the darkest hour in the royal palace of the Matrix capital. The hosts of fallen angels ask for the head of their “almighty” commander-in-chief, that head which according to ancient and modern prophecies and premonitions will soon fall. Then it will also be their turn, the demons and all the abominable birds who in the meantime have sought refuge in the abyss. But not even the abyss is deep enough to hide them and protect them from what is about to happen.
Someone has already seen the funeral crows, so at least some swear, they will fly away croaking and throw themselves into the depths of the abyss in collective suicide. The prince trembles and so the entire pyramid of power that he had erected in his honour is crumbling like sand in the wind. Wasn’t he supposed to be officially put at the head of this new order very shortly?
The army of demons and unclean spirits, psychologically and spiritually decimated by fear and weakened by old age that reminds them that they are only mortal creatures, will only have to watch helplessly the end of their dreams, their plan (apparently perfect) and their very existence.
Here it is: the midnight cry echoes lonely, but mighty, over the rubble of the Matrix.
Matrix: mala tempora currunt!