Survivalists are always wrong until the day comes when they are not. The historical bias is clear;
Since present interpretations lack expert witness for the contrary thesis we are robbed of the momentum of opinion that would have been rendered by a learning process outsurviving those whose lack of learning in the real world proved terminal.
There was always going to come the day when vigilant preparations were not wasted and made mockery by discountings of motivated efforts to present value. Nor with daydreams conjured from compoundings of the mathematical scope of obligations supposedly to be held and adhered to; time without end.
Mahlia would hear the older ones complain that nothing ever changed. And that in the before, the days were fill with tales and tidings. So much so as to be beyond the powers of verification or remembering. But she did not share the longing for this otherworld. She felt rather that things WOULD change. And that all would wish that they had not.
The sun danced around in the midnight sky though it was towards the end of that summer. But then came the blizzard and there was nothing to see and nowhere to go. There was nothing to see at all, and no colour or dark.
He appeared out of the blizzard and his clothes were just as white as the snow. The children had not seen anyone this old before. His face was thin. His hands were uncovered and he walked with a strong crafted stick , and the stick itself was something to see for the children, so far beyond the treeline and the mystery and magic of the tree-covered worlds that were spoke of in the southern speculations.
His head was unprotected but for a conical hat that ought to have blown away a thousand years before. And Mahliah had the sense that perhaps he had been here before they ever had.
While the tribe seemed enraptured of the traveller, Mahlia only grew frustrated at his evasive talk in only generalities and riddles. He said that cynicism is the in-between. It is the disease of those who know a lot but not enough. He said that all the races are the same and this might be understood, not only by the old man in his unhurried contemplation, but also in being witness to the old men of all races, who grew more the same each day of their dotage.
He talked of peace and to Mahlias thinking he talked of little else BUT peace. He left the following day. But it wasn’t until the next summer that they found all the frozen bodies of heavily armed strangers in the snow, and they were right back in the direction from which the old man had come. They were spaced out as if they had been in desperate pursuit but yet picked off, or otherwise killed, one by one.
The debates raged on clear through to the following winter. But Mahlia never doubted as to what had happened. She had seen the old man take off his undershirt made of strange coins. She had seen that his body was not like his face. That his skin was brown and not white, young and not old. But she never told anyone. She never told anyone ever.
What is the critical sentiment from the above screed? Clearly the take home story is the following:
“Survivalists are always wrong until the day comes when they are not. ”
This little story just to help peoples mind shift towards thinking of the possibility of ultimate doom. We must always look out for a number of matters coming together. It is already the case that we are facing levels of parastism not ever before experienced and we are at a particularly dangerous time where we must move from one primary energy source to another.
Whats seems to be unprecedented even more then the level of parasitism is the bullshit momentum supporting it, leaving the impression that there may be no way out and no correction for it.
This is really just a prelude to the flavour of some of my posts that may be on the way if I get around to writing them.