With the arrogance of a being that insists it created itself
Nov 25, 2013 15:00:00 GMT -8
Ross, Shah-Khohr of Ventrue, and 1 more like this
Post by Victor Vaughn on Nov 25, 2013 15:00:00 GMT -8
It swells. Like a river with fresh melted snow. Something had fed the darkness and he could feel it in his bones. The abyss was bursting at the seams, trying to get acquainted with all of the new nothing it had inside of it.
It was always an interesting phenomenon; the storm was like a beast, tearing through the countryside, destroying homes, ruining futures, ripping apart the earthly things that society held dear. The storm got all the press, it got a name, it was the star of the tragedy.
Like most tragedies, however, the star was not the most interesting character. No, there was always someone else that resonated more with the crowd, someone that left more of an impact. In the case of the storm, it was the clean up, the aftermath. Despair and hope all mixed together, fighting for the spotlight that they won’t ever get.
The storm was beautiful, but stupid and lacking complexity. It was the wake that was the real object of interest here. The sheer volume of inferences that could be drawn from the wake was staggering. The human spirit was either mankind’s best ally of worst enemy. In cases like this, it was both.
Some would rally behind the cause of community, picking up the weights of their neighbors and lifting them back to their feet. Other would sink into their own personal hell, looking back on what they had and realizing that all of their material progress had been swallowed by the maw of the beast and consumed, never to return.
It was in watching these reactions that Cervantes found a bit of enlightenment.
There is no hope.
Not that there isn’t dreams of a better tomorrow, or wishes for fortune, but rather, that these things were nothing without action. Hope is a lie you tell yourself to cope with what you have.
Take a man’s bowl and feed him hope; he will starve.
It was always an interesting phenomenon; the storm was like a beast, tearing through the countryside, destroying homes, ruining futures, ripping apart the earthly things that society held dear. The storm got all the press, it got a name, it was the star of the tragedy.
Like most tragedies, however, the star was not the most interesting character. No, there was always someone else that resonated more with the crowd, someone that left more of an impact. In the case of the storm, it was the clean up, the aftermath. Despair and hope all mixed together, fighting for the spotlight that they won’t ever get.
The storm was beautiful, but stupid and lacking complexity. It was the wake that was the real object of interest here. The sheer volume of inferences that could be drawn from the wake was staggering. The human spirit was either mankind’s best ally of worst enemy. In cases like this, it was both.
Some would rally behind the cause of community, picking up the weights of their neighbors and lifting them back to their feet. Other would sink into their own personal hell, looking back on what they had and realizing that all of their material progress had been swallowed by the maw of the beast and consumed, never to return.
It was in watching these reactions that Cervantes found a bit of enlightenment.
There is no hope.
Not that there isn’t dreams of a better tomorrow, or wishes for fortune, but rather, that these things were nothing without action. Hope is a lie you tell yourself to cope with what you have.
Take a man’s bowl and feed him hope; he will starve.
