We're on our way. The Great Attractor won't be denied—so we might as well
enjoy the ride—I'll make no promise to meet you on the other side. Please humor me and allow me to digress. Forever dancing on the edge of
oblivion, as we commiserate with life long past and life that's soon to pass,
because nothing ever lasts.
Oh that is so resplendent, 'tis a shame you can't wear it as a pendant—never knowing how long your body will extend its autonomous, finite fight to
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Quotations are insufficient to
console such a loss. Tears will flow, even then, at any cost, and we may ask ourselves: "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
and by opposing, end them?" Did even William Shakespeare know?
Winged, my mind takes to the skies. Navigation will be improvised, as the
destination is unsure. I'll let you know…
Darkness rains. Darkness reigns. Searching for the obligatory apologies that never come. She looks upon the silted landscape, hoping, pleading to whatever ear may catch her somber notes, that her savior will come to her with promises of salvation. Lost.
She wonders. She wanders. She feels most impotent; the death throes are more frequent now. Guilt ridden and blood drenched, her eyes have witnessed the fiery destruction of humanity. Oh, the humanity of it all. The ashes have supplanted the air that she once breathed; she gasps for it, like the proverbial fish out of water.
She seizes. She ceases. She draws her last breath. He comes forth from the abyss—and with open arms—he shrouds her in his gelid embrace. He surveys the detritus; he turns in disgust. Her tears have yet to reach the ground. Suspended all.
Well, I'm nearly finished with Fyodor Dostoevsky's brilliant book entitled: The Brothers Karamazov. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in classic literature. Dostoevsky had the proclivity to inundate his novels with copious amounts of religious fervor (which reflects the years in which it was written:circa 1878-1880 C.E.); however, that does nothing to diminish the overall experience. Dostoevsky deserves my utmost respect, and now takes his place alongside such iconic figures as: Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, Ludwig van Beethoven, James Joyce, George Orwell, and Edgar Allan Poe (as well as many others). My next selection will either be Niccolò Machiavelli's The Prince, or David Hume's A Treatise of Human Nature. I hope to enjoy them as immensely as I did The Brothers Karamazov!!