XXXI
December 22, 198-
So much dying, yet there is a celebration amid the dying. There is a flickering light in the darkness. There is beauty and wine. There is sharing. Best of all there is love. People have been separated from one another, like passengers from a ship that has broken up upon a turbulent sea, its remains scattered in the endless storm. What are they to do—these individuals who grope blindly with outreached arms for anything seemingly steadfast? Some manage to cling to a solid piece of flotsam and hope that rescue will arrive before they parish. Others shout angrily and thrash at the waves as they sink beneath the surface of the sea. And there are those who perish silently without even a murmur of complaint. Still others embrace strangers as if they were the oldest of friends, family even. In such a world, a drowning world, love is the only remedy for despair. Even truth cannot console the heart that is about to perish. Yet love cannot save these poor drowning souls. Love consoles but cannot save. Powerless against the sea, each heart trembles, terrified by the roar and crash of the cold, black waves. Still love is not without potency, even in a drowning world, because it draws its strength from the cold and darkness. It is when darkness approaches that lovers value most one another. It is they who kindle from their concern and caring a small warm light in a drowning world, so that just for a moment the darkness and terror recede, though never completely out of view. Is that not how some Buddha-like observer passing through our tiny solar system would see humanity’s struggle for meaning midst the swirling darkness? A passerby, such as Mr. Rieneau? Or yourself, my dear reader, since we are all temporary travelers in this life—sailors, migrants, wayfarers.
From Frank Kyle’s not yet published novel The Girl and the Philosopher.
