How many people will help how many others to no fanfare? What’s the next step, the next insight? No, that’s not how it works, no direction from above… Chance. What will chance dictate to unfold next? And will it be progress, insofar as such a thing can be said to exist? For there to be progress, there must be a goal, and the universe most likely does not have goals. Shit, back to square one. To resign to the unknown…
When I look up at the clouds, and the half moon rising above evening trees, birds winging on the breeze, I feel like I’m in a science fiction novel. It’s all so patently impossible, must be the stuff of imagination.
A layer of kissing mist, an enveloping, quieting fog in the treeline, the echoing squawk of a raven, swifts’ wingtips brushing the orange, silty soil. The calm before the storm, the eternal staving off of inevitable work. Another dawn, another dime. One strong rain could wash it all away, save the grass and Old Earth for another day.
There’s so much we can’t see because of the nature of life itself. We live on this ball of life and activity. Maybe it’s best we can’t see the universe for what it really is: random. There’s no reason, none but what we make. Welcome to the tyranny of consciousness.