The nature of a fool

It’s hard to imagine our beautiful planet, Mother Nature, violated to such a degree that she can no longer give birth and nurse her children. That day her decaying body is a testimony of past charm when weeping and gnashing teeth shall utter excuses, the same which now pave the intolerable road of exploitation. We are in our greatness a miserable species which bites the hand that feeds. We didn’t or would not know; we didn’t or would not see it coming; it was her or us. Something had to give and we wouldn’t.

Forgive us our exploitations! We, the last chain in evolution have made man the purpose of evolution; have made man the last chapter in a story of a billion and one nights; after us nothing – for now, and for a long time to come – like it was.

What difference there is between Love and pleasure! Love entails rights and responsibilities, mutual care. Pleasure is a headless rush. Pleasure takes what it wants and then leaves the victim. Mother Nature has greatly pleased us and, for the privilege, paid with her health. She loved us, the spoiled and ungrateful species. We have poisoned her rivers and sterilized her seed, turned her colors into black and grey; she gave us life we gave her waste. She gave us essence we returned a ‘look a like’ veneer.

Now we face depletion and ‘nemesis´the equal and opposite reaction to pleasure and ‘hybris’. Fools, Holy, or the last mistake in an absurd chain of events, rush towards their destiny where angels keep aghast. “Mother, you need more angels”; beings that will not tear at your breast only to turn from you in selfish sleep.

My friend, can’t you remember or did you never know her… your mother? Were you born into grey and black and never saw a Whitten pond or a water garden like Monet? Were you offered pixels and perfume but deprived of color and fragrance? Have you never heard the ‘call’ of the wild or felt the green breath of a jungle. Have you been fed by a mask, with image and likeness? Have you trusted in a shine; in the labor of man? Did the abstract lure you away from the concrete, the wind from the solid? Did ‘realism’ strike a bargain with your senses?

Consider her fair face again; she would not see you in hell but who can hinder a fool?