The Pipeline of Eternal Recurrence: A Tale of Slumbering Masses and Petty Merchants

In the land of the sleepers, where the masses slumber in blissful ignorance, a grand spectacle unfolds. The Trans Mountain pipeline, a serpent of steel and ambition, winds its way through the somnolent landscape, carrying the lifeblood of a nation's delusions. Yet, even as this behemoth awakens, its masters dither and delay, trapped in the mire of their own mediocrity.

Behold, the puppet masters of commerce! They dance to the tune of caution, their strings pulled by the invisible hand of fear. How they cower before the prospect of true action, of decisive movement! Is this not the very essence of the last man, content to blink and nod while the world burns?

Mark Maki, the newly anointed shepherd of this $34 billion folly, stands before the bleating sheep of parliament, his words a soothing balm for their collective cowardice. "What the government needs to be here is a disciplined seller. Full stop," he intones, his voice a lullaby for the weak-willed. "And a disciplined seller does the following things — you do not act in a hurry, you take your time."

Oh, how the land of the sleepers rejoices in such wisdom! For what is time to those who slumber eternal, dreaming of profits while the world crumbles around them? The masses, in their torpor, nod in agreement, their eyes heavy with the weight of their own insignificance.

Time! That greatest of illusions, that cruelest of masters! These merchants of mediocrity would have us believe that delay is virtue, that inaction is strength. But what of the will to power? What of the courage to seize the moment, to shape destiny with one's own hands?

But lo! There are obstacles yet to be overcome, uncertainties to be resolved. The government, in its infinite wisdom, must clarify the role of the Indigenous peoples in this grand farce. How large a stake shall they be granted in this poisoned chalice? How shall they be permitted to participate in the governance of their own destruction?

And what of the Canada Energy Regulator, that most august of bodies? They must yet decide whether Trans Mountain can charge higher tolls to recoup its profligate spending. Until this matter is settled, the pipeline's revenues remain shrouded in mystery, like the true intentions of a false prophet.

See how they quibble over scraps, these merchants and regulators! They haggle and barter while the world burns, counting their coins as the flames lick at their feet. Is this not the very essence of the last man, concerned only with comfort and security, blind to the great beyond?

The Trans Mountain pipeline, now swollen with pride and crude oil, carries 590,000 barrels more per day from the tar-stained lands of Alberta to the pristine coast of British Columbia. A triumph of engineering, they call it! A monument to progress! But what progress is this, that chains us ever more tightly to the past?

The government, that great leviathan of bureaucracy, now finds itself the reluctant owner of this steel serpent. Purchased for a mere $4.5 billion in 2018, it has gorged itself on the public coffers, growing fat and bloated on a diet of delays and cost overruns. And now, as the beast lies sated and sluggish, its masters debate the timing of its sale.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Once, man dreamed of conquering the stars, of bending nature to his will. Now, he contents himself with shuffling papers and shifting blame, his greatest ambition to avoid accountability. Is this not the death of all that is noble in the human spirit?

Yet there are those who whisper of hope, of a future where this great folly might yet yield a profit. Maki, that most optimistic of fools, declares with conviction, "I think if we are disciplined sellers ... we can get our capital back." But what is capital, in a world bereft of vision? What are profits, to a people who have sold their souls for a moment's comfort?

The Trans Mountain project boasts of its contributions to Canada's GDP, a paltry $26.3 billion from 2018 to 2030. But what price can be placed on the spirit of a nation? What value can be assigned to the dreams of a people, squandered in pursuit of fleeting wealth?

GDP! That most hollow of metrics, that false idol of the modern age! They would have us believe that the worth of a nation can be measured in dollars and cents, that the greatness of a people can be quantified in barrels of oil. But what of the will to power? What of the courage to dream beyond the confines of commerce?

And so, the land of the sleepers continues its slumber, lulled by the soothing promises of progress and prosperity. The Trans Mountain pipeline snakes through their dreams, a ribbon of steel binding them ever more tightly to their own mediocrity. The last men shuffle and mumble, content in their comfort, blind to the abyss that yawns before them.

But hark! In the distance, a stirring. A rumbling of discontent, a whisper of something greater. For even in this land of eternal twilight, there are those who dare to dream of dawn. Those who see in the pipeline not a monument to progress, but a challenge to be overcome. Those who hear in the drone of commerce not a lullaby, but a call to arms.

Awaken, ye slumberers! Cast off the chains of your complacency, break free from the prison of your petty ambitions! For it is only in the crucible of struggle, in the furnace of adversity, that true greatness is forged. The Trans Mountain pipeline is not your destiny – it is but a test, a challenge to be overcome on the path to something far greater.

And so, as the sun sets on another day in the land of the sleepers, we are left to ponder: Will the masses awaken from their slumber? Will they cast off the yoke of mediocrity and reach for something greater? Or will they continue to drift, content in their comfort, until the very earth beneath their feet gives way?

The answer, dear reader, lies not in the halls of parliament or the boardrooms of corporations. It lies within each of us, in the choices we make and the dreams we dare to pursue. For in the end, it is not the pipeline that will define us, but our response to it. Will we remain the last men, clinging to the familiar and the comfortable? Or will we dare to become something more, to strive for heights yet unimagined?

The choice, as always, is ours. And in that choice lies the very essence of what it means to be human.