It's hard to be sarcastic, or not, lightheaded (for change) or anxious, or not. There is always some thoughts along the lines of: on one hand it's horrible, but on the other, how long our prisoners can endure: no art, no romance, no history, no holding hands, no booze (when we discovered it), no music, no joy, nothing but lament in a different tongue? When you look south and see opulance like the Burj, it's hard not to think of an alternate reality where wealth is not wasted on second rate weapons, or postures.

On the other hand let's not be naive enough not to recognize the wolves howling outside. The house is a mess but at least it provides the illusion of safety. For you've already seen with your own eyes what happens when you open the door. Next door.

I have no answers. Sometimes I'm proud of integrity in the face of shameless bullying. Sometimes I feel like a wretched man from a broken family, homeless, making my feeble pleas to be left alone, my rich neighbours cavoting my nickels and dimes, my beautiful wife, my diamond mine that I have no shovel to dig. Or is it a mine of lead? Maybe they pay everyone to shun me until I'm dead?

No one remembers how the war starts. Not really. Historians unearth parchments after the fact: they came to barter but stole the king's daughter. Someone shot some duke. Some Army massacred some unarmed minority. But what we do remember is demise. Suicides underground when you used to roam in an eagle's nest. The president, bearded, found in a hole. The rebel leader dumped at sea. No shortages of ends. And the mess that ensues. And the winners making the rules all the way to the bank.

Now that we have progressed to our (primate) ancestors' level, when logic, humanity and morality bow out to expansion, when no one has it easy (when we could, if we would), what guidance can anyone offer? In virtual reality, which has become more vivid than our reality, I find myself rooting for catastrophe. The alternative, the status quo, the more vicious outcome. Or is it?


Jam24