the first steps took us outside of our understanding. the first words showed the breadth and depth of our ignorance. the first thoughts were unformed beasts swimming in oceans of ineffability. we looked and understood nothing of what we saw. we listened and failed to grasp the import of the sounds we heard. we opened our mouths and tasted we knew not what. we breathed in scents we could not begin to describe. our hands flailed, reaching for something we could not define or touch. our feet stepped, uncertain, on the earth we did not know. we were worse than children because we did not have a parent to show us the way. we stumbled and broke things, roared with animal frustration at the lack of order in the world around us. we laughed and cried never seeing our emotions for anything other than a reflection of reality, never knowing there was more than pure reaction to the stimuli of life. we knelt, we prayed, invented gods so we would not be all alone and meaningless, thereby giving up meaning, sifting it into the imperfect vessel of belief. we were born, we lived haphazardly, we died and rotted where we fell because we knew not that our dead ought to be buried.
the ghosts we raised through tales of childish ignorance continue to haunt us, haunt our politics, religions, art, and what we teach our young. these ghosts still walk among us, wear our coats and eat our food, while we stumble naked and hungry, wondering why. we offer up the sacrifice of time and love, effort and hope, gold, frankincense, and myrrh, burnt lambs and doves heaped high to reach the non-existent ghosts, who hunger ever more for what we give them. when will we move away from ghosts and tales of ghosts and paths laid out by ghosts? we have been given so much information, so much choice, and still we choose to put our trust in ghosts whose hunger never ends.
the light comes first in fits and starts, flashes and glimmers, grows stronger over time, flooding the darkness, then fading into it. sunlight in trees, the leaves trembling in the breeze setting their shadows dancing, flickers of light and darkness on the bark, the grass. the growing light of dawn becomes the white hot light of noon before it mellows into afternoon and trickles into the magic of the golden hour, then back to dusk and night. stars pierce the dark, flashes of diamonds, shards of glass, celestial reminders of how small we are, and still afraid of darkness. the endless loop of light and dark, our fleeting time in ribbons, black and gold, turns, turns, and turns again, a carousel we ride and think we're getting somewhere.
there's hope; there is no hope.