| Chapter 22. Are You
Post epoch The land divides itself amongst the trees and grasses that once grew profusely in this region. A once inhabited garden paradise to some of the most immaculate species to ever populate the earth grows with emptiness. Some escaped in the events that collapsed and extinguished most life forms on earth, but however likely your chance for survival was, very few lived. There was once a time on earth where the humans began to thrive and the threat upon this blue planet was too great for the watchers to bear. They no longer watched, the acted with the proficiency of a brain surgeon removing the legions on the temporal lobe of humanity. The ideas that once inspired man existed no more for there was no brain to ponder the simple inefficiency of their actions displayed on the caulk board of life. When the reality of the diminishing natural resources man had grown accustomed to pillaging hit, there was no reaction that could have saved his helpless future generations to exist. In essence it was already too late, a fact some say inspired the apathetic resistance to continue its unchecked consumption on a gem so precious. The rain never felt so cool on his face as he gasped to breath in the pollution of the city. It was rare for the rain to enter into condensed areas where carbon was produced at such a rate it displaced all the natural currents for rain to take place. This day in particular the rain was sweeping across the trash filled streets of another dying city. It was beautiful to see all the plastic wet and reflective like the world was washing itself of its sins. Debris blew down the empty streets and alleys, acting as if they where in a hurry to get home. What pitiful life humans had created for themselves he thought. Are you who you say that you are? I don’t own a thing. We don’t own the world he thought, rivaled in self pity and consumed by a desire that kept eating him away. The life of an artist. To change something in the world, to create the masterpiece dreamt about. Is this really what you want, he thought. A sad day had cast over his life and dreams. The false ideas his history had compiled together to form his mundane idea about how the world is and how it should be. What he should be looking at is how the world got this way. The names that you call things with, sing a song that the world cannot recognize. Nature does not perceive the symbols of Man, just as we cannot understand the language of nature. How did we become so alienated from the Garden? We have changed our destiny so many times, but what shallow sights lie in store for the destiny of the future generations. We act like there is no one going to live after us, and that dream may come real. The words I write, something needs to be done. An action to take. How should I be? As if being perceives doing. The thoughts have to be thought. Give me this time to think. Time and space echoes of infinites past and future. Space acts in a perspective of the perceiver. Are you trained to see? To float on this invisible measurement of time, forever now. Thinking is an action just like all the thoughts that escape into action of an idea that doing something will achieve results, that we can think our way out of this. The notion that the same thing that created the problem would be able to get us out. That these ideas have a reflection on the situation. What about truth. What about love. What happened to that moment of peace, was it just something to pass and come back to, a larger picture emerges. But it is not static as the rise and fall of one thing affects another in this dynamic myriad of pictures that flits across the screen in a blink of an eye. As one who has eyes can see it was the one eyes undertaker who blew the feudal horn. |
 |