I sit here, exploring with you, fantasies of the world as we would reconfigure it.
Once heavy grief becomes hysterical laugher. Crushing physical pain surrenders to the lightest tickle.
And we gasp, stunned at our own benevolence, our own enlightenment.
Surely, we reason, anyone with the wherewithal to wipe away the carnage, the hate, the daily mundaneness of life wouldn’t hesitate to fix such obvious mistakes.
Yet all of our primal fantasies, the one after the other, are nothing but a child’s first playthings: cheaply produced, readily disposable, easily replaceable.
Are we are constantly distracted by something new, or have we just grown quickly tired of the old?
Along with the power to heal come the spores of annihilation.
What we in our whimsy would create, we no doubt will destroy. What we in our fantasy choose to heal, we will one day set out to reverse.
For we are much like the gods of old, jammed through with jealousies, and tempers, and impulses, and rage. And, so far at least, we have little to show for all of our grandiosity and self-importance.
Whenever stability is in short supply, fantasy appears as if an uncomplicated refuge.
It is not – as even our deepest fears must eventually acknowledge.
But only then will the doors back home swing wide open, as if anticipating the victorious return of some once forgotten king.
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