And here we are, standing on the broken pieces of what was once Pangea.
Unity split and spilled into cacophonic progenies, we float adrift, reeling under the new status quo. Fruits new and forbidden borne from the divine tree lure us. As they tempt our senses, we realize they are both poisons and panaceas.
We behold the mysteries of life, its fragility and ferocity, its protean yield to circumstance, to change. Species, civilizations & languages, rising and falling like the breath of man, a gentle and necessary equilibrium maintaining the gestalt.
In-between the spaces we can see it all there, the thread of unity which binds it all, the mother tongue that was before Babel. Before misunderstanding, before conflict, before the illusion that was division. We know better now. In the purview of centuries of struggle, we can see it all clear, was the status quo really new?
We cannot pull through threads that hold us in place, yet answers lie right before us, split apart, misunderstood. Apotheosized into ineffable prophets and holy lands, sacred creeds enshrined and sealed with war and blood. But she whispers, a muffled plea, echoing through cathedrals, synoguges, mosques, laboratories, classrooms and theatres. One voice, primordial and fragmented by the facade that we are uncommon, that there is no common purchase on the truth.
We recoil from the harsh realities, the poisonous lessons borne from this fruitless struggle, Atrocities both near and far, wide and deep, concrete and ephemeral. A reaction which also yields an ironic promise the potential panacea, we cannot run from what is, we cannot run from the opportunity to make a difference. Fragments remain the same parts of the whole and it takes all the running you can do to stay in the same place. Perhaps in time, we will rediscover where the fragments fit.