It is the way of the day, so it seems. We stand bloodied and bludgeoned by this wearisome race, speeding through the marathon to the finish line, only to be sprayed by pellets and nails and shrapnel by angry ghosts with scores to settle, messages to send, and messes to make. Torn from within, we fight for impossible equilibrium and stability across the vast spectrum of we.

There is no getting along. Deep down, we know that truth. We idolize mannequins, make gods of the blinded pious, stand unwilling to sacrifice at the altar of human brother and sister. We are each complicit in this division, fragmented further by prophets, politicians and prospectors with a gilded purpose.
These days, the faithful picket funerals and build unshakable theocracies, punctuated by ironic ivory towers that rise above the humans they were built to protect. A pope receives a retirement salary equal to the GDP of a poor African country. A martyr straps a bomb to his back and drags innocence to hell with him. Further apart from a human center, we sprint.

And it is that middle that cannot hold.

Is our finish line equal or pre-defined? The truth is that we cannot know. Much like how we are unable to see into a black hole, there is an event horizon of human knowledge. We are brilliant creatures, but too fragmented to put the big pieces completely together. We cling to tattered fragments of myth, assembling the canvas into an image we can comprehend. One that is comforting, and hopeful.
And subjective.

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