There is a nastiness that structures our culture that makes me ashamed of being human. There is a great engine of selfishness somewhere deep in the bowels of things that stirs some to foster for others the strangest of attitudes. For those with power, who through their wealth can dictate to others how their lives must be, dictate nothing but drudgery and servitude. The vast bulk of us are but a natural resource for the powerful to exploit as they see fit. So what could be an earthly paradise on our little blue planet is instead a workhouse of sorrow and grief.
And whilst the least person suffers, I will suffer with them. It is quite impossible to imagine for myself a moment of peace or tranquillity whilst at the same time I know there is someone in distress, a child hungry, a poor soul grieving. So I become that poor soul, and I grieve, and I grieve for the destruction of that paradise that should be here. My eye rests upon its absence always. I dwell in its absence, I dream of its absence, yet cannot dream of its absence retreating as it assumes concrete reality. For I cannot give up the thought that the evil that presides over the world’s evils, if not infinite, is certainly larger than the world itself. So the evil must always prevail over those who quest against it.
The ice sheets are melting, the poor get poorer, the rich laugh louder, and hope can no longer be mustered. And I feel so ashamed. It is as if the catastrophe is in fact all along my fault – though of course it is not. Yet it seems to be my fault because I cannot do what must be done to end it. So instead of hope, there is only despair.