You find yourself on the rooftop of a ruined building in a ruined city on a frosty night. A motley few huddle together to listen to the tinny sounds emanating from a hand-held electronic device.
Transmitting food for their souls, The Poet K unpacks his narrative.
“Does the womb shelter our tears?
A frightened cry tests the unseen chasm, calling out for echoing solace. An anchoring sound hisses from the wilderness. Hallelujahs rise to a crescendo of hate. Faith must have its god.
Earlier, Rodin’s Man had searched the rabble for signs of incipient sentience. Now he helps search the rubble for signs of life.
The illusion of safe haven shattered in an instant. The bomb screamed “Who shall stand while buildings may fall”?
Yet, are bombs themselves illusions, merely temporary diversions, masturbations of the impotent?
Responsibility is claimed by disciples of the latest prophet of other’s people’s doom.
Irresponsibility is claimed by the bystanders, civilians by unacknowledged choice.
Rodin’s Man ponders the equation. The god-neediness of the believer divided by the humanity of the infidel equals the devastation required to quiet the dreaded uncertainty.
What we fear is our humanity.
We kill for want of self-reflection.
Rodin’s Man shakes his head. People will say that they can know god yet without knowing themselves. They can separate ideas from perceptions, believe that interpretations are truth.
He marvels at the continuing infusion of messiahs. He wonders, “Does history not teach us that liberation is DIY?”
“Praise the Lord.” The hoodlums taunt the old lady as she walks past the blasted carnage, clutching her tattered shopping bag and information leaflets.
“Yes,” says she, “Praise the lord!” and begins her self-affirming spiel, only to be cut off by the gang’s obscenities.
Their rejection is her salvation. She has withstood the test. She will scurry home to worship at her personal shrine, fantasizing ascension and retribution.
The aggression of the gang members is their damnation. They have tested others while failing themselves. They clap each other on the back and smirk. They wear their ass on their faces.
Rodin’s Man wonders which, in the end, is more dangerous, the punks or the proselytes.
He goes back to searching for someone to save, choosing to believe that they may be salvageable.”