One day, a time will come when all that we are pioneering, praying (preying?), cultivating, is history. The past.— Storm Constantine, from The Fulfillments of Fate and Desire
It shall be analyzed; a subject for earnest scholars to pore over and dissect. Trivial events, accidents, coincidences, shall all be imbued with great meaning.
I can already hear the voices raised, confident they know it all.
Oh yes, I can see it now; our far descendents, all gathered together, clothed in their perfect flesh.
One shall say, “The first Wraeththu, of course, were little other than barbarians; hectic in their search for truth and so far from it, eh? All they could grasp at was their sexuality. What a shock it must have been! They were human to start with, after all. What a shock to find they were half-female after centuries of despising that sex!
Ha ha ha. They will all laugh together smugly.
Then another bright spark, perhaps younger or more controversial in his views, might venture, “But surely the reason they couldn’t see the truth was because they were so shrouded in self-deception. Knowledge was so close, and yet… they couldn’t see it through the shroud. How sad.”
Here, I feel, one of the older hara, stern-faced, will deliver a subtle reprimand.
“The first Wraeththu were without discipline; too outspoken perhaps, before considering what, in fact, they were really saying.”
This will be said with relish, and the younger har will feel humiliated. He may look down abashed, he may not. But whatever. Those sentiments may well be right, and half of me is inclined to hope so.
If those highly advanced hara never DO come to exist —
if our race remains static or even slips backwards to the ways of men —
then the struggle really was all for nothing.
A cosmic joke. The biggest case of self-delusion in the history of the planet —
and there have been many.
Let’s face it. We were just mutants, freaks. End of story.
Not saviours, not ultra-men — not sons of angels or deities —
The gods weren’t looking. It just happened.
And yes, I have to admit it; the other half of me is lying back, sipping good liquor, with its feet up, thinking, “Yeah, fuck the heavy stuff.
Let it all be –just this.”
I don’t think the Earth should ever countenance a future scorn for what we are — what I am — for, after all, our descendents can never be here, now.
They will never know us as we are or why we do things.
The bloody times, the horror, will just be history to them; words on a page.
So how will they dare to judge?
Very easily, I should imagine.
Will it ever be said that, in spite of everything, we all lived to the best of our ability?
If life is a battle, then my inner scars are medals for valour, swiftness, courage, and passion.
Evil is the dark-haired brother of Good. They walk hand in hand. Always.
And by the way — whatever it sounds like, that’s not an excuse.