The years take their toll in wisdom. Once lost paradise is gone forever. People dominate the globe and people, with very few exceptions, aren't worth the clay that comprises them. The world is ugly because people are ugly. True evil is a problem with aesthetics, no more.
The planet from above is beautiful, but its beauty is illusionary. Take a closer look at Spaceship Earth. The world is crawling with vice. Sharp-toothed. Dagger-clawed. Drooling savages glutted on martyrs' blood. Filled with raw death. Fatted on kindly souls judiciously lynched.
The savior, his body cold and hanging from a tree, has saved no one. The prophet, dressed in perspiration and rags, cracks dirty jokes on a street corner. And the crowd, the crowd complies sponge-like. Absorbing everything and understanding nothing. Inanimate objects animated by chance, not design.
I take no comfort in the apocalypse. If I smile grimly it is more from a sense of relief than from joy at our demise. We are creatures who rose to the top of the food chain. And then, seeing no one capable of contesting our perfection, we proceeded to dine upon each other.
It took fifty years for this non-revelation to find the cynical soil of this fertile mind. Poisoned manna from a starless heaven. And I'm as culpable as any. Withdrawn within myself like a prelate on retreat. Contemplating my image in a fun-house mirror. Smirching at my foolishness and despair.
Cruel and capricious. Petty and pointless. The journey from cradle to grave is, as Shakespeare wrote, a tale told by any idiot. Meaning is a needle in a stack of ambiguous hay. Find it for yourself if you can. But don't prick my finger with your preaching. I've bled enough.
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