Not The End
I look all around and see nothing but destruction.
The fires still burn in the distance and the howling, blood-crazed men chant into the early morning with the voice of millions, their footsteps splitting the soft fields and marbled streets.
I am alone in this decaying, implacable world — a spectator of a tragic tale, with no voice and no hands. No means to build anew.
I tried to prevent what I am so acutely aware of, but I was stripped of everything. I did this because I believed in a world of humanity — a world of compassion and community; of truth and progress.
Still, the hubris in man was intractable, its roots were made of iron.
I look around and see nothing.
The fires still burn with a vicious glow, their creators always chanting, always looming— the deep drums roll on to the music of a venal world, as the deranged, blood-craving men march on, their footsteps splitting the greenest forests and whitest, marbled streets.
I am alone. This world is decaying. I am a spectator condemned to be of this world, but have no voice, no hands — no means to build anything.
I tried to warn the world, but they said my words were unfit and parasitic. This was the fate of all truth. I did this because I knew what was at risk — a world of compassion and community; of truth and progress.
Still, the hubris. Always the hubris. Its roots go deep.
There was a time when I believed man’s capacity to be something remarkably good. Man would transform himself, and he would triumph. This would be his only chance to be better than what he is — a freedom that would save him from his own destruction. But I now know his appetite for violence and resentment has taken hold, and I know not what deserts he will have to endure to find himself again.