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Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Juggernaut


Today I feel done with existing in a world which seems to be nothing but hell and murder. Today there was another mass shooting. There are many people like me who feel, it seems, the pain entire of a world that every day grows more violent, replete with the worst horror and at some point, they wonder if they have even a shred of agency in a world gone utterly, perhaps permanently mad. They cannot feel that any thing will get better. I would count myself among them.

 I look at Thistle and her friends playing their cute and innocent games. Three and a half years ago, I walked into hell and rescued her. I watch her play right now as the sun goes down. She is so little. They are all such sweet innocents. I worked to the very last shred of my inner reserves to bring her from silence into light. I pray with all my heart that she will find the courage that I have not. She inherits a world gone insane, but perhaps these little ones will grow up to find solutions. Try as I must to protect her, I cannot be a complete wall against her and the insanities of this world.

I have to say that I would like to release any sense of hope for this world getting better at all, and let others carry that noble burden. As for me, my heart stands too broken in a world that gorges itself on madness and violence like a tick.

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?