With all that Life Is Good (and I do affirm that life is good and still good, and good nevertheless and notwithstanding, and anyway), one who has lived into life and through life and knows (as my dog or cat does not know) that this is it and it’s about over and done, might wish that life could have been lived in a day and age and planet, galaxy, universe of beings brained for goodwill and lovingkindness. That is to say, instead of having lived with, among and as creatures, animals, things, godlike humans whose basic drive is reptilian -- are we created in God’s image, or is our god imagined in our image -- would have lived in a Plane without hatred, Newtown, racism, Holocaust, greed, My Lai, selfishness, Shock & Awe; thinness of spirit, substance and being; ISIS, certainty. Mainly certainty. A world with mentality so dark as to slam an airliner filled with happy schoolchildren into a mountain leaving parents and the world bereft, but a world still not ashamed, because in the ages of man, we have learned nothing but to grapple for our rights.
That where is imagined, I reckon, in our dreams, in the passages from Isaiah and Revelation that Christians read to each other, and like to hear, at funerals and feel temporarily soothed and assured. Except that I don’t mind the physical pain and death, and the three score years and ten of Psalm 90. It’s the disappointment, isn't it; it's the sadness, the cosmic pain of what we do to each other, the realization of what we could have been and done.
Maybe next Time. There.
Beyond the Eastern Sea with Reepicheep.
After The Last Battle.