I am afraid to share this with many people. I am always afraid to say what I see because I am considered to be an alarmist, irrational and delusional. So I put it here for me to make sense of things. Reading it makes a third perspective. Can I make sense of things, put it into words, rather than pictures? I believe we are all bearing witness to irreparable damage to our species. Time will not stop, we will not change. Currently the greatest loss is in the variability of the human genome. Africa is still mathematically provable to have the highest level of variation from person to person. And that is over the entire continent. This is also the same region of our planet where most of the strife and danger to ordinary people has created the greatest risk. Life pops into and out of existence, living a few months, weeks, or hours of misery and pain, human life. This is Mother Nature’s Petri dish. If there is to be a natural solution to HIV or any disease it will be from Africa.
As an anthropology student I believe if there is one, then this highly variant human soup will have it. However, the natural world cannot work around the interference of human economics and greed. Many of the subjects that may very well be immune to HIV are dying of starvation before they are even found by science, or Mother Nature. These deaths, these in particular, the deaths that could have been prevented, these may signal the downfall of Homo sapiens. We will lose the variability in our basic gene level to fight new diseases as time continues to move. The capacity to stave off even minor illnesses will arrive, we will have to rely on science, how much of our economy will we devote to it then I often wonder. But time moves on, so I also reflect on what shape of beast, cognizant life will appear as next.
Who or what might I be?
I may feel things too early, like a Canary in the coal mine. But the miners usually paid attention to the Canary. It was rather important after all.
As things have moved slightly I thought I might throw a wrench into the mixture.
The boy sat still and watched as his universe slowly began to spin around his centre. Lying on his back on his bed, feet straight up in the air, blankets tented over his little feet, he froze. His torch was in his left hand, his right hand over the lens cover. The bed-sheets looked like skin, his feet poking a hole through to something, what? The boy was greatly skilled in frightening himself. The hairs on his skin bristled. He felt his toe begin to twist. ‘Ouch!’ he whispered! The boy’s heart began thumping so that even he, fit as only a boy can be, began to notice. He could see it, as a blurry blue pumping, spinning around his upturned toe, like everything else. A ‘BOO’ would have killed him dead, right there on his bed. So the boy turns out his light in sheer terror…
…and finds himself in the garden, on his back, with his feet in the air. Standing beside him you would have seen a tower of animals, back to back, toe to toe and back to toe again, you know what I mean. The boy, however, could only see the back of the hippopotamus spinning around on his big toe.
‘Hmmmm!’ thought the boy.
‘I’m asleep safely in my bed.’ he thought as he looked upward, past the hippopotamus’ fat pimply back. Everything was spinning again. From the boy’s position the tower of beasts turned to a spiral.
‘Where could I go!’ the boy attempts to move, with little success. PANIC is quick on little boys. Although their hearts can take it usually. He jerks his legs flat onto his bed, the sheet of skin goes flying back, and the whole spinning spiraling vortex of life goes splat against his bedroom wall.
‘Ugggghh!’ is the only sound the boy makes as he sits in a room of blood and skin and bone. The smell is overpowering, he wants to vomit but dare not. The boy looks toward the alcove in the wall at the foot of his bed, because there is always an alcove in stories like this. The alcove should be pitch black, aren’t all alcoves? An odd light shone from the alcove, strange, like daytime peeking into night. Every thump of his heart made the light brighter, from a soft morning light to the harsh glare of the Sahara at noon. A deep yet frail voice spoke from the alcove.
“Help!” it said.
The boy almost jumped out of his skin, out of bed, onto the frigid floor. ‘sshhhh!’ he said, too loudly of course. There is a splat from behind him, something falls off the wall, the voice speaks again,
“Who are you?” says the boy,
But the door of his tiny room flies open. There is a sea of red, with bone flotsam and skin algae.
But the sky was blue.