Pages, red pages
History: vast and pregnant
with man killing man
Living as I do in the 21st century and during a stretch of relative world peace, and now of an age that I risk no enlistment in anyone’s army, it is so very easy to lose sight of the brutal, the near inconceivable violence of our human past.
I guess Cain is to blame for this trend—should we lean on the Bible as authoritative reference; though the notion, the utter blindness caused by hatred so deep that you would kill another human being (whether brother or not—and aren’t we all siblings, anyway), is so enormously alien and more than I can fathom as to not even belong to this galaxy.
I read somewhere that mankind—throughout recorded history anyway—has never experienced a single moment of total world peace; there has always been some conflict, some skirmish, some battle, some war in progress. There has always been some field soaked in red-turning-to-black blood of the often-still-alive-and-in-agony fallen.
So, History’s pages are all red, should all be red, should scream in anguish at all readers to for heaven’s sake wake up to the insanity of our pain-soaked past and look to what goodness we can find in our souls to make sure this carnage stops now.
But then a new story breaks and ISIS has slaughtered another village, the Syrian dictator has killed another countryside of his own people, and some lunatic decided to mow down forty-three people with a rented truck in a now-shocked metropolis.
All is not well with the world, seemingly never has been, and I wonder how history will view us who did little or nothing about it.