Truth has rough flavours if we bite it through. - George Eliot
I'm crocheting a granny square blanket for my bed, because I suddenly decided I want one. So far it's the Boring Blanket of Immense Irritation, which is exactly the kind of thing everyone wants to sleep under. The sweet peas are out, there are more hydrangeas blooming. These are probably the only two stories my garden has to tell right now, unless you would like to hear some of mess and neglect. We're not fans of chaos, really, are we? We like stories of redemption or resolution, like to believe there is one big cause behind all the devastating effects we see and experience every day. That so much of our lives is predicated on chance seems wrong, and yet? So much of our lives are predicated on chance.
I don't think the world gets uglier and harder the older we get. I think we just stay alive long enough to collect more examples of hard things that we've withnessed and lived through, and it gets more difficult to believe that everything will work out in the end, because it's all just a fight against things falling too far apart. And that's not bad? We should fight against things falling too far apart. It's messy and it's imperfect and we'll never win (what even is winning?). Fighting's the wrong word. The right word is, um ... working. It's just a lot of work, a lot of up-hill rock pushing, to stop things falling too far apart.
Consciousness extracts a high price on our species, but it's not personal. And look at what we gain. If we can see the stars racing inexorably away from each other into a long dark night of nothingness, we can see the stars.