Things were pure, those golden days.
Tomorrow is worst of all: the end is bubbling up
through the cracks in the surface, is it not?
We are hurtling toward self-inflicted doom."
Maybe we are just frightened to imagine that perhaps things are just as bad as they've always been and always will be—and this is what we ought to fear: not society's downfall, but its continuation. Not apocalypse, but the endless ebb and flow of a fatally flawed immortal heart.
For we expect redemption in the end, do we not? Is it true that humans feel the weight of our folly, and long to have it lifted? All fire is cleansing: If we are to burn, then we shall feel justice—as if this is the punishment for our wrongdoings, and once we have weathered it all will be right as it should be. And, perhaps more selfishly, this fantasy includes the satisfaction of seeing your scorners receive their long-deserved comeuppance.
Do we await hellfire and brimstone, ours or other, on this earth in order that we can look away from the fire consuming ourselves?
For my part, I dare not wait for destruction on any scale—mine or ours. Neither fire nor water by my own hand will suffice. We cannot save our own souls, that much is certain.