You know, when people talk about human ingenuity these days, it’s like a catchphrase. Human ingenuity in an age of wonders sounds like a mere factor in an overall scheme of things. It doesn’t take much to destroy the product of human ingenuity, these days – or rather, it’s never been easier; it’s always been easier to destroy the work of someone else’s hands.
You build sandcastles near the shore and it degrades naturally in the surf. You build walls and they fall in time. You build buildings and they get blown up. Maybe that’s what’s so horrific about the inevitable decay of everything; if decay is the natural consequence of the finite nature of all things, then acceptance of this fact is not just mere wisdom, but facing up to reality.
But what about other people tearing down the fruits of your labour?
I’ve got a lot on my mind, and these days many things clamour for attention. Family, career, things that in the final analysis are supposed to mean something. These things quickly become a daily plod after some years of walking down the same road.
Laura finds her escape in the arms of another man. She stands before a mirror seeing her nakedness for the first time, fascinated by a territory suddenly made unfamiliar by or on reflection. Agnes’s life ends in a flash of petrol and a screech of tyres. She finds her betrayal in the ultimate escape. Both fictional characters. One dying, grasping the lineaments of an idea. Another sees a tapestry in herself.
Life is fragile, isn’t it? I shouldn’t waste it doing the necessaries.