It may seem sad that our highest motives; compassion, kindness and mercy; are eroded by the passing millennia until no traces of them remain. This said, when these virtues have been deployed without a side glance to the ledger of history, these motives have been at their purest. Nonetheless with the piling on of the years, the brute aggregate mass of moments, they sink deep into the archaeological strata of the past.
With a similar movement of forgetfulness, all our evils pass away; first into cliché, then into obscurity. If terror, violence and malice seem to linger more painfully than their opposites, perhaps this may indicate our race’s imbalance of forgiveness or an inequality in the valence of our forgetting, but there is this: perspective, in its deepest macrocosmic form, forgives all.
Pharaohs, Caesars, Hitlers are all accepted into the bosom of those expanses of time that might pass for timeless. The universal history of infamy, is less universal than it may seem, in these local centres of emergency that are every moment of life on Earth. Siddhartha disappears from view as readily as Genghis Khan. The lullaby of deep time, dissolves ego, character and karma, which correctly understood represents the fire of action, good or ill.
Perhaps this is what has made a utopia of those dusty parking lots out there near Andromeda, where the last women and men wander aimlessly, slowly losing that self-consciousness that drove them to such moments of genius, love and destruction. Perhaps on some instinctive level they can hear the lullaby, the slow unknotting of the vendettas and treaties that have forced us to hide behind these masks of comedy and tragedy. The understanding that extinction and genocide are not opposing faces of the same beast. The understanding that all of those dual oppositions were some collective protracted nightmare, and like all nightmares, their resolution was to be found in the proper application of time.
If we still have a purpose out here in the infold, it is that of acceptance. From this advantageous perspective of all things that ever occurred, with the book open at the last page, we can finally accept time’s forgiveness for a hubris so overwhelming that it blocked out the horizon. Like one lost in the filthy alleyways of the Pacific sprawl at night time, harried by hard drugs, hot gossip and bad conscience, if we were afflicted by anything other than our imagination, we were merely afflicted by an existential claustrophobia.