One man, broken by years of war, walks into a village and with a ticktock contraption that fires little blades into the surprisingly soft and yielding tissue (that same tissue that surrounds, sustains, and causes our infinite-like souls to appear seemingly ex nihilo) moves the ticktock to its teleological end and sends objects that end into the softness of men, women, and children who lived their lives as deeply as you and I.
Gone. Out. In an instant, before they even knew what hit them. And to themselves, they are gone as if they never existed.
Such is what we’ve wrought. Such is the logic of our adventure. Horror and pain on the other side of the world. Blackness. Endless emptiness. The outer dark.
And Toulouse. A Mujahadeen. A god-damned Muslim. Of course. Who hates my people because they are my people, because an illiterate shepherd prophet twelve hundred years ago could not sell his horse-shit to my kinsmen, who had already eaten their full of their own sweet bullshit, that revolved around a tree on fire and a holy mountain and a book of law and a king foretold.
And so a child’s everything is ripped from the universe, as if she never was;
Like drowning puppies.
The sun and the planets and the dust motes between and the lines of flux and flow that undulate softly slowly grinding exceedingly finely across the endless ages of time, never harming anyone or anything because in the silent lifeless vastness of the universe, these lines of matter and energy and space and time just are and flow continuously from one form into another —
why is it so different with us, then, sayeth Gertrude the Mother, as she asks me to doff my blacks and rejoice with Yorick, & the Alterfather sayeth “hustle and flow, your sorrow is unseemly” and sayeth then I, finally finally I, “seems, Motherfather, I know no seems, it truly and verily is.”
Yes, we are a momentary accident, a transitory form, but oh, I am attached to it, so so attached to it, and it is hard to let it go, and hard to watch it go, and the readiness is all and at the last, at the last special providence of the fall of the swallow, oh, the things I could tell you –
Speak, Horatio. Speak.