When we are ruled by buffoons who threaten nuclear war, what do we say of ourselves for letting it happen?
What have we become?
How do we find ourselves capable of existing as a worthwhile species?
In the roll call of our misery, those who perpetuate its terms and conditions are oblivious to its tokens and tributes of despair.
This is what happens when a species becomes detached from its habitat.
It looks inwards. It begins to conceive of itself as the world and the world, in itself, as a human construct.
Reality becomes internalised, becomes an abyss of attentions misdirected inwards towards malformations of unrestrained vanity.
The scope of survival is reduced to a pinpoint of overly satisfied needs.
The arts of devotions, the simple advantages of knowing such devotions, are never known – and never known enough to be forgotten.
The abstraction of priorities that are essentially hollow command our thoughts.
People, inside, become hollowed out shells of the greater possibility of being themselves.
Look at this sky. These broad absolutes of cumulus dragging their startling darkness over the backdrops of the eternal passage; stratocumulus assembling in eons of colour, in fractions of awe.
For those of us who remember, we dance upon the surface of these beautiful absolutes in the absence of gods.
Without such gods, world leaders pretend.
Degrees of wonderment are unregistered as war beckons.
Let them be crushed by the fist of our abhorrence for them.