... the light you see at the end of this tunnel is a train. And, unlike the movies where the panicked people dash into an unlocked service access door at the last second, we have no place to run. We have no place to hide. The train's picking up speed, and on Friday at 6:00 pm it's going to be where we're standing right now.
I've sat down to write something here a couple of times since my last post but I haven't published what I wrote because it was too depressing. You nice folks don't deserve to be exposed to my toxic thoughts right now. Believe me, they're not pretty. Or safe, for that matter, for consumption by the average blog reader.
So, rather than terrify you with a glimpse into my psyche, I'll offer a poem by Yeats that feels something like it.
"The Second Coming"
Turning and turning in the widening gyre,
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?