I don’t usually go-in for prediction. Sure, I think about the future, speculate on what might be, but jumping ahead 48 hours isn’t my usual thing.
It feels like one of those death clocks counting down. Measuring the minutes until everything is over.
I don’t want to think about how I will or my family will feel. That is too painful.
I want to think about the cogs tyrannical, how they will spin.
The NHS will continue to suffocate.
The true nature of society will be worn on lapels of the anonymous…
Do they not see me?
Do they not understand the reality?
And, what is that?
It for me, and, this is a tiny sliver of what is; those who will die.
Not wanting to over-dramatize, yet, it’s an inevitability.
I dreamed last night of a right-wing conspiracy to end poverty; let them die. No, it wasn’t me – it was Rick Mayall in a Twitter skit.
Yet, I see what is happening to the hospitals, to the care homes.
I see the deterioration.
A senseless tsunami that destroys in your sleep. An overwhelming numbing of the senses, of the emotions, a stultification of love.
How many people have to worry more about themselves before the society involutes?
How much navel gazing over television and tabloids happen before the tipping-point and we fall into the dark?
In 2010 I predicted a collapse.
We have lived through this for a decade.
Sure, I have done OK.
Trips abroad, central heating, too much food.
But the value of every pound I earn is diminished by the suffering of others. By the missed or lost opportunity that is the equivalent of a Tory vote.
I imagine the meta-language, the hidden code of society, driven perhaps by benevolent overlords, is one in which we are guided down the path of righteousness; that BJ is placed in his position by design, as who would consider the man deserving of his current position, who would assure his role?
When we stop believing, we believe in anything.
Where do you go after that?
Where do you store your hope?
As if, it isn’t bad enough that the rainforests are burning, the atmosphere stale and the medicines are running out and you have to wait 12 months for a hip replacement that will be cancelled on the day of operation, or your harassed nurse or doctor responsible for too many patients will be called away to another incident or event;
The angels of our better nature hide in heaven.
We are left to forage.
We are left to sleep.
Out nightmares are a reality.
They go on and on and
Laura K says it is already decided; the BBC have made up their mind. I’m making plans for Nigel;
None of this makes any sense.
It is more than illogical.
It is casting yourself and your family off the cliff.
Masada; they had Romans at the bottom; what is our excuse? How do the millions justify their actions? ‘I did it for you,’ I killed with kindness is perhaps the most appropriate expression.
We owe it to our children; to those born tomorrow and the day after to provide some sense of hope that we will not squander our opportunities.
Sure, this is dramatic.
A dramatization of politic.
When, if not now to become serious?
To regard our actions as consequential.
Labour will win.
Perhaps not by much.
Give my kids a chance.