From the dusty, deserted steppes I swear I distinctly heard laughs carried by the eastern wind. But from the other direction I heard the sound of man destroying himself with his instruments of aggression and self-loathing.
The wind and the songs of the wind were confused.
“Why do they love death?” asked the softly-spoken song of the south.
“Maybe they can’t help it,” whispered its undercurrent.
“Ha! This strange animal seems convinced that it is NOT.” The suddenly sober easterly gale.
“NOT worthy, NOT of this earth, NOT an animal.”
“To think!” said a whistle in the wind, “A worthy animal of this earth thinking it is an unworthy non-animal from somewhere else!”
“That is the true self-betrayal!” said a fresh bold wind blowing from the north.
“The human–the animal that tries to be more than what it is, yet uncomfortable in its own skin,” it continued.
“and so it is also the animal that creates…
with games such as art and music, boundaries, love, and religion.”
“Through them they conquer their fears…”
“…they are mirrors up set up to see themselves,” said the eastern wind.
“Maybe, just maybe,” said the bravest wind from the south; “but also their love and religion and art and death are all types of standing outside themselves and attempts to re-connect to a community they have destroyed with those very tools…”
“Even imaginary communities are better than none at all,” interrupted a solitary blue-finch in flight from nowhere to the other side.
But the bravest wind from the south continued, “…because this animal doesn’t yet know it but their religion is a form of going beyond that overreaches and flies over the earth’s horizon to live with the dead sky gods that won’t ever steal their fears, and their love is a mirror that lost its face to the reflection of distorted falsehoods in the haunting light of the evening dusk; and their art broke its heart on the edge of the ledger and the lap of the faith and coins…and they don’t know it yet, but their death and destruction is a form of creativity that isn’t yet creative.”