Revoking Hamlet

I
am laying down my arms.

I
have spent many years believing that a berserk attack was noble. That somehow this would be lead to victory or else, to the victorious end.

I’m tired, and I am laying down my arms.

My idealism is shattered. I knew that mankind was fallen, but like so many, I want to believe in the best of us. I thought that my life among the people in school was an aberration. I believed that the the real world would be better.
It’s worse.

It’s much worse. Working among the affectionate and charming people of a good company, I wrestle with the oppression of tragedy and sorrow. Death. Loss. Purposelessness. Substance abuse. Mental illness. Deliberate, cheerful sin. My good company is a jail; it stinks of money and the grave.

Dealing with the daily customer, it is clear that the base nature supersedes the conscience in 90% of the people who call. Everyone feels entitled to special favors. They have no patience, and expect things that we do to happen as quickly as the internet moves. They coo with pleasure when we pander to them, but in the words of a friend, “it is no measure of character if someone is happy when they get whatever they want.” People think that they are “good people” because they can be placated, and say please when they make their outrageous demands.

So much for the bedrock of my idealism.

Life is barren.
There is no beauty, no excellence, no joy.
There is only attraction, innovation and fun.
We sit in cold houses alone.

The essences, the ideals remain, but they are so hard to find. So very hard.
As a child, I could see the loveliness in Nature. The more I see of the world, the harder it becomes. To find heaven in a violet is still possible, but exhausting. To exalt with Beethoven is still innate, but ignored. To look away from the drab city to the clear sky takes the last dram of carefree ambrosia stored away in my soul.

I stared and stared. I fought and fought. I drove back despair with hope. My idealistic hope was to see and then display. If I can see, and I can teach, I can teach others to see. But I can’t fight anymore.

Sitting by the wild lake, I recognized. No one wants to see but me, even I, Cassandra to this dying world. They are set about their courses and, though listening, do not hear. I speak, but they will not hear of their death, or their redemption.

I will suffer quietly. There is no draining this sea of trouble, only drowning in it. I lay down my arms.

(but not yet.)

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