The Sunset of the Soul

Just as the orange ball of the sun sinks down towards the horizon, its warming rays diminishing as with the light, the amber and gold flamed tinged air is filled with the song of ghosts. It is a song as old as the mountains and soars like a buzzard soars. It has been sung ever since the first tongue could sing in wonder at its own miracle of creation; in mystery it seeks an answer as it flies upwards towards the star lit canopy of vapours. In truth the answer is never returned as harmony, but that does not stop the singer secretly hoping that a reply is forthcoming. The song’s literal message is to call unholy creation to acknowledge the holy creator it believes is owed its venal and sin encrusted existence. The softened melody, it is hoped, is supposedly heard with a fervent heart’s dream of salvation and reward beating within. It is the soul of soulless conditions, the heart of a heartless world and the sigh of the oppressed creature. It is the smoke of the burning pyre of lies.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” So sang another once lonely desert traveller desperate for a sense of meaning in the void he so feared as he stared into the glass, darkly, looking forward to a clarity that was not there when his oblivion arrived. Millions have sang this song and will continue to do so until humanity’s infancy is transcended. A terrible crushing and enduring irony is that childish things were not put away. Instead, in a fit of intellectual suicide that would have made Socrates weep, our Damascene enlightened, self appointed, prophet peddled his childish delusions in letters to other children scattered across various congregations in sand blasted cities of the ancient crescent of so called civilisation, and for another two thousand years those delusions continued to soak the fears of its adherents in blood.

The ink drops on papyrus, from the Pauline reed pen, presaged the blood drops on the pastures of battle fields across the killing fields of Europe for centuries.

Like babies, nations are often born dragged screaming into existence with not a little blood as company. Sometimes this takes a millennium to clean up. Sometimes it never has been. Often blood is called for as a sure sign of the sacrifice the song requires to be sung.

There is a dreadful paradox in lands of the ancient prophets. It is this. That a people can live in a world created by enlightenment, taking for granted the products that so smooth existence in an otherwise hostile heat soaked land, and still be at peace with rejecting the obvious logical conclusions of that enlightenment. The evidence of the abandonment of an interfering and so called loving deity to our own resourcefulness is all around us. Yet it matters not. The song still gets sung, the hope still gets hoped and the fear still gets feared in case we eat the wrong sort of meat, marry the wrong sort of goat or accidentally stroke a tumescence at the imagined sight of a tit.

Published by Lance Goodman

Freelance writer, bon vivant and all-round good oeuf.

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