It literally is the middle of the night, as dark as it will get at this time of year, at this northern latitude, with the skies dotted by low but flighty clouds, lighted by a subdued just-under-the-horizon sun and the last light of the waning moon, making the river flicker slightly, and perhaps I should write about the world and its horrors, but I just can’t.
These horrors to write about are many, and the numbers rise as I sit here, up in northern Sweden, by the keyboard; they are the signs of a society falling apart, a system failing; and the different symptoms and reactions; and most people write and talk about each of those signs, without making the full picture.
Perhaps I’ll brave that picture, one day, but that day is not today – such a picture demands time, and dedication, and recently I lack both; instead I spend my time trying to recharge my batteries. Gearing up for an interesting but hellish fall that is just what I need if I’m to survive until Yule break. So instead of adding to the choir I keep my thoughts in my head, listening to the silence, occasionally broken by the sound of a freight train passing, and thinking I might just as well leave the keyboard alone, to go read Miéville’s Embassytown, which is, this far, very good, and in itself offering food for thought, fitting well with the state of the world.
And while I am sure some people that I know think I should spend my time writing diatribes instead I think my choice is a wise one.
The death of the world as we know it can not be avoided by one more word written or said, because it is already here, hidden among the shadows, deep in the cave, full flank ahead, while people write pamphlets or watch Family Guy or kill each other.