Love, apocalypse.

The act of making love is one of dissolution of boundaries. On that lush green morning, the grass and the trees washed afresh by the torrential rains, he did not know himself. The newness, the freshness, the soft beauty of the leaves was all there was. The cloud covered sky, with no sun in sight, was all there was. The gentle breeze, cool and softly caressing, was all there was. Complete union between man and nature. It was the fulfillment of all existence.

Outside the forest, all the struggles of man raged. Ugliness prevailed over beauty, tawdriness over elegance and grace, falsehood over truth. The world was breathing its last. The food, the air, the water had been destroyed, rendered unfit for human need. Apocalypse was now. Only, man did not realise it. He did not realise that the saga of 1 million years, the story of humanity, was reaching a tipping point. Life, as he knew it, would not survive into the next century, as it had for tens of thousands of centuries. The world as he knew it would, after having begun slow suicide, finally die. One did not know if a new world would arise, and how. The wise had predicted this all along and anyone who could see the dirt, the toxicity, the violence of everyday life, knew that this perversion was the final end. Only, man continued to run, to chase after his fancies, unaware of the death of his world.

In the forest, softly, quietly, man and nature were still one, as they had been for a million years.

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~ by tdcatss on September 3, 2016.

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