In the
wake of every civilization comes its mockery. Its decay. And its
devastation. Ours none the lesser.
The parasites of culture are its
critics, first honestly, then ironically, and lastly with a flag wave
of peril to come and a hand wave of warning of what may be if things
don’t change.
The
Cassandras. The neighsayers. Those who ponder the best and the worst
of us all. Those who express moderate discomfort, genuine concern,
considerable pause for thought.
Then, with dismay and horror of
impending doom, followed by insanity, increasingly shrill, endless
torment, and finally with desperation; the end of it all. And so
Babylon the Great is fallen.
And in
the end, absurdity. But absurdity with a seed of what comes next. The
prophets who foretell destruction also declare rebirth. Always death,
then birth.
Let us hope so. We could use a new world of hope and
the rebirth of ignorance of what has gone on in the past, the faceless
time before us in our all encompassing here and now. Just like every
other one who came before us. Let them dream their own dreams and
tilt at their own windmills.
Let
them observe their own ceremonies of ignorance. For a while. Until.
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