How can the mechanics of the universe ever fit into a book or box that does not warp and pull and fray in the weight and static the gravity of its edges?
How could a ship cutting ripples through the stars ever meet the horizon, where the water and the cosmos touch—between their reflection and their changing?
How could every religion ever be described,
how could absolute truth be condensed into any language—when every individual life, every love, is a nebulous apocrapha.
Every time we awaken, the dream goes ever onward. Every time we tell the story, or live the blossoming of myth in a single golden hour, kissing a bundle or green ivy and clutching the hafting, shaft and feathers of enchanted arrows—
the archer in the sky is already shimmering like another being, unknown until another season has turned, and another night’s fire is coals and embers?
I’m not an environmentalist.
I’m a biological rights advocate (which means I’m an existentialist, because I would like it if we kept existing).
Environmentalism sounds misleadingly like a niche issue.
Saying that we’re destroying the environment is like saying to someone that they’re taking an axe to the walls and plumming and timbers of the house you both live in, out in some lonely wasteland tundra-a husband, wife, and children.
You don’t tell them stories about how precious the house and carpentry and photographs they’ve shattered from the frames
are.
You must look them very calmly and clearly in the eyes and explain that this is the apocalypse.
