Glorious species

 So here we are. The glorious species. Just below the angels, clutching after our gods. Most of us live in some kind of peril to our lives, our health and our futures, but the few can always take refuge in their mansions, their yachts and their banks. We are intimately linked by technologies and viruses, but we hang on to the tentacles of hate and privilege. The messages of the great sages hang in the air, but we don’t have the courage to grab on to them. We can’t muster the big love or find the great beauty needed to build the world the angels wanted for us.

We got to this place because we’ve always been in this place. Giotto’s angels have never stopped crying. The human world was always beginning and ending. There were always saints and thugs, the beauty-hungry and the power-hungry, people filled with love and people empty and hollow, people who exploded with life and people who collapsed under its weight, people who loved their children above all else and people who should never have had them.

So here we are. Playing our roles in the drama, wondering when the circus will close down for good. We’ll ignore our souls and miss all the beautiful things they populate. We’ll act like our gods are just nostalgia. The glorious species.