In the black tower of the lord they conspire. Clean fingers briskly skim reams of detail, but there is little room for subtlety. Instead, a victory without accountability; the hundred year rule of the demagogue begins. Will it be one hundred, a thousand maybe or only two? No matter, their fervor will sow mistrust and lean a stubborn grudge into the years that follow their demise. The vendetta will rage, improbable levels of testosterone buoy their destroyer hopes and drive Machiavellian instinct to new extremes. Who can catch his eye? Which of them will win the masters praise? They rejoice in the authority touching his head, even if it should be from the left hand of God. The believers revel in their premonition, and long for the touch of his hand.
It could not happen here, the union of dark forces with our white pillars of governance. Of, for, and by the people it has been proclaimed and so it would remain. But those people were fed a stream of deceit, and they consumed it with increasing fervor. Never has a dark tale been told in which the people were not deceived. Or is it that in their hearts is desire for deception? Who is the culpable party? By whose incompetence or negligence is this toxicity spinning and wriggling into this terrestrial plane? The instincts that have made all things possible— the instincts of a star and a stone alike — now grip our throats as if there can be no escape. We stand on the verge of utter and complete despondence.
In truth, there is no reprieve to be granted, we simply endure and spring up willfully resilient when the depth of winter relents— or die before that time comes. Many will die, and many have been dying along the way. We find ourselves in the pocket, not unlike Stalingrad or Aleppo, as the bitter grip of cold regret stiffens us. Some of us will go mad, some will go along quietly following orders, some will resist and perish, and some will endure with dignity.
There are two sound options for me in this moment of despair. The first is to seek comfort if I need it, and the second is to give comfort when I can. This is the imperative now, this and to accept that darkness has descended and lament the mounting casualties of our avarice and self service. The stranded whales and emaciated bears, the stunned and blood washed children in the rubble and the unconsolable parent of a lead laced child, who slowly, unknowingly poisoned their own with trust.
There is also a promise that is held within each one of us, an incorruptible font of divine nature that grittily wears away the thorn of our desire. We will be called out of this darkness with a mission of love and an undying commitment to one another. We have come far together, but we have not reached our destination yet. Many graves will be dug in this terrain, many wails rise up into the night. But, the remnants of nature call to us in whispers. In the darkness I hear the words rising.