As dodos and dinosaurs.
Because the alchemy of my rage is a haphazard blend of anger, sorrow, and frustration. Because the volume of that rage exceeds the capacity of my body. Because my caution is on vacation, my restraint strained, my politic corrupted. Because the only partner I can give my rage is my optimism; because of all of these things I mean what I write when I write that
It will die, it will die, it will die. And nobody, nobody, nobody will be happier than I when it goes.
Your debased logic, your outdated hatred, your meaningless cling to the fences and borders you place between yourself and humanity, your clumsy acts of time-delay violence, your misplaced priorities, your insufferable spokesman poses for powers you know how to fear but would never dare to understand, your reliance on empty indignance and social shame as the lifeblood of civilization. One day it will all die. Even if it takes the nova of the sun and the flash-fire of all known life in the universe, even if it survives that long it will, one day, cease to exist. It will die unloved and unmourned and with the final knowledge that it was allowed to live for far longer than it deserved.
It will die and its disciples will be ships lost at sea, forever blaming the winds for their misfortune. They will be briefly seen on the horizon and then vanish, until there is nobody left who remembers seeing one up close and in person, until they are legends to scare small children instead of an actual monstrosity that once wreaked havoc on everything with which it came into contact. They will be considered absurd, something that could never have been. They will be a fallacy, a fiction, a farce.
And this will die as a culture. It will die as a mode of thought. It will die as a possibility. It will die and the molecules that were me, eons before, will coalesce for the slightest moment and dance jubilantly in the vacuum.
And I’d love to say that you know who you are, but part of the problem is that you don’t know, that you would never see yourself in this description. You do not know who you are because you don’t care who anybody else is, and in the absence of that frame of reference you concoct a fantasy version of yourself that nothing can degrade.
But that too will die.
That will die with the rest of it.
Creative Control 