I am an eternal, relentless optimist.
I cannot help but believe that, no matter how much shit we might have to trudge through first, things will always work out for the best in the end. And I cannot help, either, but to believe in the best of everyone’s nature, no matter how hidden the good stuff may be.
But there is a peril hanging above our heads that my relentless optimism cowers in the face of, even if it tries not to show it. Will we destroy this precious gift we’ve been given?
I can’t bring myself to believe we will, but I also cannot deny the very real possibility. The options for such a deliverance are plentiful. We keep coming up with more. And once they’ve been thought of, surely, they must be resolved. One way or the other. How long until one resolves decidedly not in our favour? Just how many, in fact, lurk, unfinished, in the shadows up ahead, like long snakes we haven’t yet met the fangs of? Could one wrong move be all it takes? We’ve made plenty already, bumbling around into things we had no business bumbling into. Is it already too late? Did we already destroy it, and we just don’t know it yet? Were we already bitten, and now we’re simply waiting for the venom to overcome us?
Life is so resilient, yet so precarious. And faced with the choice of progress or perish, I’m not sure we’re capable of discerning which is which. So what will become of us?
I can only speculate.