A secular parable for our times.
The boy is standing on a high place, watching the storm clouds gather across the sea and to the south. His vantage point, this mountain top, perched like the eyrie of some arcane bird of prayer.
Those in the valley, the people of his village, unsighted by the mountainside, eyes down as they tend to their duties, good and bad they none of them can see the impending turmoil.
He shouts , he shouts again and again, he shouts until he is hoarse.
They do not hear.
Blinded by their rote, deafened by the cacophony of life , intent on their daily struggle for survival, numbed by the inanity of gossip, focused on the minutiae of commerce and soil and weed and labour.
They intend not to hear. They despair of acknowledging the approach of hardship. Do not they have enough of that already?
Frightened to look, frightened to listen, frightened to understand they prefer to imagine that someone else will bear the brunt of the tempest, that they will be safe , that death and sorrow and discomfort will be someone else's lot, not theirs.
They believe despite the facts that misery will somehow pass them by.
They would rather cling to this lie than face the danger eye to eye, summon the necessary courage to stand straight and challenge their nemesis.
They move towards the centre of their tribe , seeking comfort from others, renewing the acknowledgement of those they believe will protect them, surrounding themselves with those they hope will die in their stead, speaking out against the messenger of truth, saying that he lies, he lies, gaining comfort thereby.
They mutter a silent prayer of the religion they have learnt. Prayers never answered because they pray to a lie, a figment, a bastion of forlorn hope, a last chance recourse for the pitiable, a chimera of belief and faith born of nothing but that which it is; the lies of men.
Still they pray.
He races helter-skelter down the mountainside, leaping the crevasses, bounding the rocks, bloodied he pushes through the bracken, heeding not the stings and thorns, bringing the news, every sinew and nerve devoted to his desire to warn them, to save them, to bring them to safety.
In vain, in vain.
They shun him. Point to the rents in his clothes and the blood weeping from his wounds. Mock him for his excitability. They can see no storm. They can hear no wind.
They do not want to know.
Bad things happen to other people. People far away. They have learnt not to care about such things. They have learnt to live in isolation within the mass. Not to speak out. Not to rock the boat. Not to be excited nor excitable. They have learnt not to love , for the grief that will always follow.. They fear hurt more than any thing.
They sacrifice their dignity, their courage, their decency, their emotion at this altar of self preservation.
They are safe in the herd.
Until it's their turn.
Then none will heed their bleating. None will turn to save them.
Because bad things happen to other people.
When the storm arrives, they turn on the boy and beat him as they are washed away into eternity by the tempest, cursing him for bringing this hell upon them, railing at him for attracting this wrath.
"If only I'd shouted louder", he thought.
"If only I'd run quicker. If only my eyes had been as sharp as an eagle's. If only. If only.
If only I'd shouted louder".
That is the way it is Olive - my corporate family in the city even put their had up in a stop sign saying 'we don't want to hear amy of that Von .'
ReplyDelete' Frightened to look, frightened to listen, frightened to understand they prefer to imagine that someone else will bear the brunt of the tempest, that they will be safe , that death and sorrow and discomfort will be someone else's lot, not theirs. '
Exactly that is the situation - you summed up my situation very well.
Olive, it's all so sad to me. I feel like the little boy at this time in my life and I relate to the herd mentality that represents much of my previous thinking.
ReplyDeleteI would try to save that boy now and tell him how valuable he was even though no one listened. I would clean his wounds and hug him and tell him that I loved and appreciated him. I would not see him as a "weirdo" no matter what the tv might call him. A spirit of discernment is growing within me. In others too.
As Von Curits said, it's almost impossible to reach others because they don't want to hear it. But you never know what might be a trigger point for a particular person. Someone may be doing well financially and not want to hear about the federal reserve banking system but they may have someone in their family who has been vaccine injured and they would be more willing to research that aspect of truth. Everyone knows that things in the world aren't right. Let's keep trying to wake them up, even if we get wounded and mocked. We need each of them to make our wake up movement stronger.
Mr. and Mrs. Olive Farmer, I really appreciate your blog!
'But you never know what might be a trigger point for a particular person.'
ReplyDeleteYep that is the truth - so we keep trying.
We are lucky - remembering people who have gone before us
This comment on http://www.outlawjournalism.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=69052#69052
'Then we go to our forced peer groups at work or with family and we have to talk about football with the boss or about the boobs on the new trainee while the world is in the midst of the ultimate revolution. We have to watch our wives, husbands or children vegitate in front of the tv and watch them become parasitic like the tv knowing one day when your old and unprofitable they will disown you.'
It made me think of all the people who did not have the internet and had no one to talk to who understood 'this goddamn matrix' .
Many people across many countries before us over a very long time have either gone mad or been put in psychiatric institutions , died or have been killed because they wouldn't bow down to the matrix system and they longed for truth but could not get any people to understand what is going on and support them.