From whence arises this dystopic cry?

I was on the train out of town this afternoon, sleepy and stale, watching a small boy speaking with the conductor and unaccountably finding myself welling up with tears as I contemplated the life ahead for the child – speaking with the conductor, speaking earnestly with individuals every day – growing taller – stronger – more solemnly assured – finding a place – becoming a man – settling like spilled sand – growing older – more frail – less assured – dying…

Well, it occured to me to ask, from whence does it arise this dystopic cry. This deep, untouchable pain that accompanies the fire of love as my own son closes my eyes to make me sleep and I imagine him doing this years from now – just before he rests coins on my eyelids?

And it came to me that some of this make up arose from formative lliterature. Books i recall from school are Tess (“Is this a blighted star? Yes. Yes, this is a blighted star”) Jack London’s “To Build a Fire” with the dog watching the man struggle in the snow to light a fire, then having the fire extinguished by melted snow falling from the tree he was using as shelter. The setting in of despair and the resignation to futility. The dog sniffing the dead body before leaving for another camp. All Quiet on the Western Front (the waste of generations) Hunt for the Royal Sun (all Gods are false and determined by ego) so on and so forth, on and on and it is little wonder I am what I am and I burn.

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