De-evolution is the only course. Not a course of action consciously chosen, but the final end-result of the human story. A story, which by all rights should never have had to been told at all. The aberration that is us is an anomaly. If only there was a god to wipe us from the canvas, to recognize the error and begin anew. But alas.
So how to live a life not only insightfully and mindfully, attempting to be uninvolved to the point of culpability? By being dead, of course. Nothing else stops a cell in this microcosm of disease than to cease its aberrant behaviors. Even in comas we suck up huge resources.
The scourge that is humankind has got itself so tightly wound into the fabric of the Earth, that we must take it with us, in a sort of murder-suicide parody, that only ends when the last of us have been sloughed off the Earth’s ruinous skin.
The pox, the cancer that now lives in vast arrays of vicissitudes, on land as well as the seas and oceans, will eventually become unwilling to carry us upon its diseased pores and carrion-ridden shores of polluted pus. Thus shall we be finally expelled, albeit too late, from the Eden, the garden who housed whores and artists, rapists and ethics-professors, mad children and disabused octogenarians alike, in these psychologically embryonic human forms, maturing too slowly to find a better way.
