The discomfort of a beetle on its back, swinging its legs is not the kind of discomfort I am looking for. My discomfort is more like writing on the edge of what’s known, and what’s been said, and what’s ok to say.
If there is evidence that everything lost, burnt, drowned and gone extinct can eventually be researched, rediscovered and recovered, don’t we lose the skill and courage to fight the unfathomably roaring monsters that gulp up part of our worlds?
I remember my intuitive reluctance to use the word “deadline,” when I learned the word in English, it sounded hostile when someone told me for the first time: “You need to meet this deadline.” To get killed, I wondered?
There is humble humanity in the basic understanding that whatever humans do will trigger an “avalanche of meaning,” and that the task of being human might be to recognize and consider as many of the nuances and reasons as one can.
What kind of satisfaction comes with the action of inflicting hurt or harm on someone for a wrong suffered at their hands, and what kind of pleasure comes with receiving such vengeance? Who has the need, the right, the duty, the perversity?