a t a r a x i a

Image: Reminiscence, by Naoto Hattori 

Things are beginning to come apart, everywhere. All one need do is look around to see it. The evidence is staggering. Every system, save nature, is coming undone due to the complex outcome of some inherent flaw in its design. And nature, the first and last great bastion of hope, is being steadily dismantled by man. Piece by piece, pace by pace.

And yet, there is something else taking place. Something softly kindling at the heart of the hearth, beneath the fear and the scattered, frenetic musings that forever mark the mind of the conscious collective.

It is a strange, atavistic pulse that informs the animal brain — guilt and worry be damned — that nothing is unrelated, nothing without purpose. It is exciting. It is joyful. Out of the chattering cracks that wind their way through every iconic edifice, a new kind of feeling is beginning to flower from the wound, citing an augury of finer times. The slow horror that has been so long in building is, it tells us, nothing more than the chrysalis crushing beneath the wings of a great new godhead.

Creative enlightenment, freedom, truth.

Though all the outward signs deny this, anyone truly paying attention can’t. Through the blood of the birth canal, comes love. From within, the promise of ataraxia.