There was a moment, when the rhyme went out of verse, before we learned to dance again, and when oil had already reached full production capacity from the great wars. Beauty was being drained, until now the mail is delivered by contract workers who must own their means of transportation. Jalopies are beautiful now only in Cuba.
Writers are reduced to pandering to online streaming services, apparently, and most of us are too tired to read any more, always chasing after that one self-indulgence which might allow us not to think too hard, not to feel too hard, not even to need that slow and gentle fall into someone else's arms. Perhaps because even that dance has become too fraught. The urgency is gone.
Yes, Benjamin, it is easy enough to identify the artificial by means of unnatural regularity, but is there a time after automation where it all just looks like garbage? Garbage that won't break down or decompose but has an order that remains apart from nature without even showing any signs of artificial? Only, perhaps, on the molecular level, which might prove that it had to have passed through some era of metastatic cognition?
It is too late, Benjamin, for your projected terraforming, because you yourself have already been subsumed beneath mountains of trashy writings and no-one can bother to read anymore. The most intelligent ones lured by careers in money, and not even aware that all money flows the same way up by automated technological pumps.
The end has already been accomplished and we are but the shrug after detonation. The heart is gone.
The question that remains is what will remain of us after all traces of artifice are (once again?) expunged from Earth so that she/they/it may rejoin to living and the quick? By us, I mean the readers the writers the dancers the ones who would and will and already have died for beauty. The planetarity which might be emergent from terraforming can hardly be beautiful, unless, of course, one finds plastic so. So plastic.
We are all in a boat with the Republicans who find themselves too beholden to the bargain they made with the devil within to dare to confess and repudiate and relinquish their call on power. They are no different than the ones who have accepted and even celebrate our gig economy. None of us even knows how to remain human there. We can only learn to keep our heads above water.
Drowning will at least afford that realization of the One, the love that pervades cosmos that always has. Let go then. Stop trying so hard. There is eternity before the final breath. The rest have already forsaken that. Leave them behind, sweet Jesus, leave them behind. The name they call is void.
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