The virus is picking up pace again. At least that’s what the news reports. I’m not sure if it’s that more people are getting it or that we’re discovering that more people have it. I suppose that’s the same thing, but what I’m trying to get at is if we went around testing everyone to see they were allergic to bee stings, we would quickly discover that many more people are allergic than previously thought. We would see that many die and many suffer, and that bees change lives forever in negative ways.
And the people that complain and say they’re changing the world by creating awareness would march and shout. And the people that hate bees anyway would have an excuse to exterminate them and all their insect friends. The grasshoppers, the ladybugs, and then the butterflies. Fuck those nasty butterflies, looping all over the road in the sunshine while we’re trying to get from point A to point B.
Yes, the haters would want to keep all insects out. They would probably start by focusing on ones of a particular color or pattern then move on to the ones that don’t fly quite like the others. Maybe start with a giant wall. Or a net. When that won’t work, it’s time to arm everyone with Raid and flyswatters. Maybe call it a right and add it to a document that was written three hundred years ago. It will give people a little more pride as they grip that handle and swing, swing, swing away at that wretched brown house moth.
Humans are the problem. We believe we’re so goddamned important. Some of us live by books written by humans that tell us how great we are and how great we can be—especially, if we believe the words of these particular books. Some believe in TV. Twitter. Facebook and YouTube because we don’t want to believe in books.
We don’t take the time to pick ourselves apart while observing what’s all around. If we did, we would see that our pieces are shared and common. We’re part of everything. Part of the trees, the water, the air. Part of our friends and enemies. The doves, the frogs, the stars, and the oil that runs beneath the crust. But we’re lazy. We want the world and we want it now—money, love, freedom, and happiness—and we want it given to us. We want our fair share.
Those of us that see this mess, that sense the vibrations and are seeking to understand, are busy building rockets so we can get the fuck out of here before the powder keg gets lit by some carrot-faced billionaire. There’s a couple thousand of them in the world and I’m sure more than one is getting a foot rub under the sun by some poor kid that’s there thinking it’s just a summer job and he’ll never have to get higher than mid-thigh.
This isn’t our planet. It’s shared. We’re guests. That’s why we ought to work together to take care of it, to take care of each other. But we don’t. We’re selfish, driven by our personal agendas, our will to be powerful and control. We believe we’re all-important and so we shout and tweet and post because we have special, original opinions that need to be heard. We want to be right. To feel good. We want to change the world. And the only way to do that is to accumulate likes from the like-minded, followers that are just that, followers, and get the sheep to hit SUBSCRIBE.
In short, we’re getting too big for our britches. We can’t believe we’re part of a bigger plan that doesn’t align with our expectations. And so, there are fights. Frustration. Little needles of hatred poking under the surface as we smile at a neighbor who’s staked a red or blue political sign in their yard. And those that have the balls to raise anything but (insert your flag here)? Shame on them.
We need to get out of and over ourselves. Break up what we know. Push and challenge ourselves to understand the bullies, accept the so-called oddities, and fight the urge to conform. Learn to listen. Open your eyes. Pull away from the screen and take a look around. The time we have created is running out. There’s no stopping it now. It’s going to get you.
The virus. An asteroid. Famine.
Abuse. Neglect. Murder.
A giant, rolling wave.
A head-on collision as you swerve to miss a butterfly.
Or maybe, if you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll die in your sleep. If that’s lucky at all.