Stars Exploding in the Night, or Electric Eels Under the Covers There isn't nearly enough love in the world. And I'm not talking about the "C'mon everyone, shine on your brother, everybody get together try to love one another right now" type love, either. I've got no problem with all my brethren who hate the vast majority of mankind. I think a certain amount of disdain coupled with impossibly high standards keeps us honest and makes us better people--but that's a column for another day.
What I'm talking about here is that connection with another individual, fused across the vast morass of worthless people, that shock of recognition and joy and rightness that you can only get from another person. I'm not talking necessarily about capital L Love, in the sonnets o' Shakespeare sense, but that simple feeling of: For awhile, we were together, and for awhile, it mattered.
And there's not enough of that. We know there's not enough of that because we elbow our way through the streets to a crowded subway, on our way to the supermarket filled with bored looking people. If there was enough, we'd be able to walk from one end of Manhattan to the other without ever brushing up against another person; everyone would be in the park stretched out on a blanket, or curled up in bed, leaving only briefly to grab another bit of canned food from the empty marketplace.
That there's anyone sitting in an office anywhere is a sign that somewhere the system is breaking down. I cannot conceive of a world where we should just give one more kiss goodbye and then shuffle in to our deskjob, and the fact that this is the world I have to live in means there's something fundamentally wrong about this whole crazy place.
After the revolution, once we're finished putting everyone who deserves it up against a wall to be shot, we should definitely change that.