
I hear a voice calling out, faint, as if from a distance, saying:
“There will come a day when all of this is over. The brutal times will end, sanity will return, at least for a while. We will be moved to see people act with honor and virtue and not think it rare. We will no longer ask, ‘Where has love gone?’ We’ll shed these times like soiled clothes, pile them in a heap, and burn them. We will wash ourselves, then turn to each other, and start the work of rebuilding.”
People have been hearing this voice, or some similar version, for a long, long time, whenever wars, crusades, or other corruptions of the human spirit have run their filthy course. Some of the elders among us can remember the last great ending, when people danced in the streets, kissing strangers in random joy. A heavy curtain lifted and the morning light never looked brighter.
These seem to roll in cycles, times of darkness when humanity fouls itself by forgetting who we are, hearts closed by arrogance and greed, violence and slaughter, followed by a remembering, a coming-to-our-senses that stops the senselessness. We’ve been remembering and forgetting for millennia, for eons, forever, tides advancing and retreating, sweeping away our cruelty only to drop it back into our laps. The numberless oceans of pain that have engulfed us could make a stone weep.
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