Here's a toast to you and your's
So, some of you seem to think I can write. Sometimes, even I imagine I can. Not as if it's always clear what that means or stands for or implies for the rest of existence.
Does this matter? Not very much.
That, it seems, is becoming a theme. Along with this drought of anything authentically good to base soceity on. Instead, there's all the ripping and tearing, shuddering then popping noises from fragile chest cavities breaking open to put all their ineptitude on display for anyone to look at, to gawk at, to laugh at, to curtail around.
I suppose, though, there's something to it - to the way we can't fight hard enough to fund a cure for it; the way we can't get rid of these cancerous genes we're so used to living with. The way that if we ever did, we'd inevitably extinct ourselves.
It's almost tragic when you think about it. When you sit down with your warm latte that isn't from Italy, and you begin to imagine how 'one day, things'll have to get a bit better'. But then, you remember Venice is still sinking; the Pisa Tower is still leaning; the statue depicting all of our so-called morals is still rusting away. And she's getting weaker by the seconds and moments and days we spend shopping and gossiping and lusting after lives we don't live.
Soon, it'll all collapse. And our little refuge, our little fortress will get lost under the dust that settles over dead generations; the ones that tried too hard to exist in vacuums or outer space or somewhere across the sea in places something like Iraq.
Oh, sure. Maybe a few greats might be recalled to memory at the end of it. Or maybe just the psychopaths.
Maybe after a while they'll put up monuments and relics and gravesites marking where our lights used to shine.
Then again, maybe they won't.
Maybe they'll lend some aid to the poor, and the needy, and the desperate disenfranchized orphaned infants dying of AIDS in places we don't want to look. Maybe they'll do it for our sake.
Then again, maybe not.
Maybe they'll look at the shambles of our attempted lives, our attempted meanings; and they'll finally learn how to care for each other, how to cherish each other. How to love each other.
Then again...
I get the sneaking suspicion that the generations are getting successively colder. More numbed and dumbed down. Quieter. Less like statues, more like antiques. Less like humans, more like figurines.
Maybe among them will arise an Elijah or a Theresa or another Angel Gabriel to send some message to a dying world.
Or maybe all our refuse will just slowly simmer until the fire rises high enough, until the light grows bleak enough, until the metal grows red enough, until the children grow weak enough to blow away all the wheat from all the chaff.
Maybe it's the downfall of our generation. Maybe we're too numb to really ever know it. Too oblivious to ever really care.
Or. What if there is still hope? What if it isn't humanity and generational gaps and latest style trends we ought to blame; but ourselves.
-RK
Does this matter? Not very much.
That, it seems, is becoming a theme. Along with this drought of anything authentically good to base soceity on. Instead, there's all the ripping and tearing, shuddering then popping noises from fragile chest cavities breaking open to put all their ineptitude on display for anyone to look at, to gawk at, to laugh at, to curtail around.
I suppose, though, there's something to it - to the way we can't fight hard enough to fund a cure for it; the way we can't get rid of these cancerous genes we're so used to living with. The way that if we ever did, we'd inevitably extinct ourselves.
It's almost tragic when you think about it. When you sit down with your warm latte that isn't from Italy, and you begin to imagine how 'one day, things'll have to get a bit better'. But then, you remember Venice is still sinking; the Pisa Tower is still leaning; the statue depicting all of our so-called morals is still rusting away. And she's getting weaker by the seconds and moments and days we spend shopping and gossiping and lusting after lives we don't live.
Soon, it'll all collapse. And our little refuge, our little fortress will get lost under the dust that settles over dead generations; the ones that tried too hard to exist in vacuums or outer space or somewhere across the sea in places something like Iraq.
Oh, sure. Maybe a few greats might be recalled to memory at the end of it. Or maybe just the psychopaths.
Maybe after a while they'll put up monuments and relics and gravesites marking where our lights used to shine.
Then again, maybe they won't.
Maybe they'll lend some aid to the poor, and the needy, and the desperate disenfranchized orphaned infants dying of AIDS in places we don't want to look. Maybe they'll do it for our sake.
Then again, maybe not.
Maybe they'll look at the shambles of our attempted lives, our attempted meanings; and they'll finally learn how to care for each other, how to cherish each other. How to love each other.
Then again...
I get the sneaking suspicion that the generations are getting successively colder. More numbed and dumbed down. Quieter. Less like statues, more like antiques. Less like humans, more like figurines.
Maybe among them will arise an Elijah or a Theresa or another Angel Gabriel to send some message to a dying world.
Or maybe all our refuse will just slowly simmer until the fire rises high enough, until the light grows bleak enough, until the metal grows red enough, until the children grow weak enough to blow away all the wheat from all the chaff.
Maybe it's the downfall of our generation. Maybe we're too numb to really ever know it. Too oblivious to ever really care.
Or. What if there is still hope? What if it isn't humanity and generational gaps and latest style trends we ought to blame; but ourselves.
-RK
2 Thought(s):
We'll keep seeing less and less and less until the end sneaks up like a theif in the night.
Less and less of what? Of hope?
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