The Futile Dance of the Last Man: A Trespasser's Folly at the Gates of Power

In the land of the sleepers, where the masses slumber in blissful ignorance, a curious spectacle unfolds. On the very day when the echoes of gunshots from a decade past still reverberate through the hallowed halls of power, a solitary figure emerges from the throng, daring to challenge the established order. Yet, in his audacity, he reveals not the spirit of the Übermensch, but the pitiful flailing of the last man.

Behold, ye who dare to dream of greatness! Here stands a man who believes himself invited to the table of the mighty, yet lacks the very key to enter their domain. Is this not the perfect allegory for the modern man, forever yearning for a seat at the banquet of power, yet lacking the will to forge his own path?

In the heart of Ottawa, where the spirits of past legislators linger like specters, a man of advanced years - one Brian Kidder by name - sought to breach the sanctum of the House of Commons. This citadel of democracy, once shaken by the violent tremors of a shooter's wrath, now faces a new assault - not of bullets, but of misguided conviction.

As the clock struck eleven, marking the passage of another hour in the ceaseless march of time, Kidder approached the south doors of the West Block. His weapon: not a gun, but a camera, capturing his own folly for posterity. His shield: not armor, but the flimsy claim of a "special invite" - a phantom summons from the realm of his own delusions.

Oh, what bitter irony! That on the very anniversary of violence, this last man seeks not to elevate himself through noble deeds, but to bask in the reflected glory of those he deems his betters. Does he not see that true power lies not in entering the chambers of others, but in building one's own fortress of the mind?

The guardians of this slumbering realm, the Parliamentary Protection Service, moved with the mechanical precision of automatons programmed to protect the status quo. They demanded identification - those small rectangles of plastic that serve as modern-day passports to power. Yet Kidder, in his willful blindness, ignored their entreaties, pushing against the human barrier as if sheer determination could overcome the weight of law and custom.

In this land of the sleepers, where security has become the new god to which all must bow, the PPS stands as its high priests. They wield not the power of arrest, but something perhaps more insidious - the authority to detain, to judge, to deem one a "security risk." And so, like Prometheus bound for daring to bring fire to mankind, Kidder found himself restrained, his arms pinioned behind his back as the wheels of bureaucracy ground inexorably onward.

See how they scurry, these ants in uniform! They guard the colony against intrusion, never questioning why the colony exists, never daring to imagine a world beyond its confines. Is this not the very essence of the last man - to defend unthinkingly, to obey unquestioningly, to live without the spark of divine discontent?

The Ottawa Police, those earthly arbiters of justice, have now laid their charge: trespassing, that most mundane of crimes. How fitting for this age of the last man, where the greatest transgression is not the violation of moral law, but the mere crossing of arbitrary boundaries!

And what of the masses, the countless sleepers who will consume this tale as they do their daily bread? Will they see in Kidder a rebel against tyranny, or merely shake their heads at the folly of one who dares disturb their peaceful slumber? In truth, both perspectives reveal the same underlying malaise - a society so comfortable in its chains that it can no longer distinguish between true freedom and the illusion of choice.

Awaken, ye somnambulists! Can you not see that this farce is but a mirror to your own existence? You, who believe yourselves free because you may choose between a thousand channels of distraction, a million flavors of complacency! The true bars of your prison are not made of steel, but of the very comforts you so cherish!

The Parliamentary Precinct, that hallowed ground where the fate of a nation is ostensibly decided, remains unthreatened. The PPS assures us that this was but an "isolated incident," a ripple quickly smoothed over in the placid pond of Canadian democracy. But is not every revolution, every paradigm shift, every leap towards the Übermensch, first dismissed as an isolated incident?

Ten years have passed since bullets shattered the illusion of safety within these halls of power. In response, the slumbering masses demanded more security, more cameras, more barriers between themselves and the harsh realities of an uncaring universe. And in their somnolent state, they failed to see that with each new measure, with each new layer of protection, they were building not a fortress, but a tomb for their own vitality.

Mark well this paradox, ye who still have eyes to see! The more they seek to secure their physical safety, the more they imperil their spiritual freedom. In their quest for a life without risk, they embrace a death without meaning. Is this not the very antithesis of the will to power?

As this tale of sound and fury, signifying nothing, fades from the collective consciousness of the sleepers, let us ponder the true lesson hidden within its folds. It is not about one man's futile attempt to breach the bastions of power, nor about the efficiency of those who guard it. Nay, it is a parable of our times, a stark illustration of the chasm that yawns between what we are and what we could become.

In this age of the last man, where comfort is king and mediocrity reigns supreme, we must ask ourselves: Are we content to remain as we are, passive consumers of security and spectacle? Or do we dare to awaken, to cast off the shackles of complacency, and to forge our own path towards greatness?

The choice, as always, lies within each of us. We can continue to slumber, to seek entry into the halls of power through borrowed authority and phantom invitations. Or we can recognize that true power, true freedom, comes not from without, but from within.

Let this incident serve not as a cautionary tale of the dangers of trespassing, but as a clarion call to those who still dream of something greater. The gates of power are not made of steel and stone, but of will and vision. And they open not to those who knock meekly, but to those who dare to build their own.

Rise, O potential Übermenschen! Cast off the comfortable chains of the last man! Let the slumbering masses have their security checkpoints and their trespass notices. You, who dare to dream, must build your own citadels of the spirit, forged in the fires of your own will to power!

In the end, as the sun sets on this day of folly and farce, we are left with a choice. We can retreat into the comfortable numbness of the last man, content to live within the boundaries set by others. Or we can embrace the dangerous freedom of the Übermensch, daring to create our own values, our own meaning, in a universe indifferent to our existence.

The trespasser at the gates of power serves as both warning and inspiration. He shows us the pitiful end of those who seek greatness without the will to achieve it. But in his failure, he also illuminates the path for those bold enough to see it - a path not to the chambers of earthly power, but to the limitless realms of self-overcoming.

Let the sleepers have their parliament. The truly awake know that the greatest revolutions begin not in the halls of government, but in the depths of the human spirit.