The persistent pressure of existence presses through the essence of these people whose total effort of life is entirely creative yet barely translates to a word. I am, a creative outflow from my father and mother, creating an essential portal through which existence rushes into void. And I, in my time, pay it forward with my wife and partner.
There is a temptation to think that a sure plodding has begun. A line from creation through failure to salvation. But Cain to Lamech feel like maybe Hobbes was right. I so don’t want him to be right.
It’s curious that technology and short attention spans seem to grow hand-in-hand. The creative imposition on environment tends to objectify everything and in so doing, calls for all to be made subordinate to a forceful will.
In my life, I admit, I’ve wanted to be the one whose voice thunders and causes fear in the hearts of men. I’ve wanted to be Lamech. Hear me wives of Lamech, I was wrong. Our only hope is in the one who said, “forgive – seventy times seven”.