The world series

Life sure is getting entertaining. More show than reality, at this point, less like the world, and more like a world series. Changing every ten years into the last era’s worst fears. Never mentioning powerful, obsessive fan-ships until the team wins. Season finale’s that are in no way final, just a half knit plot twist loose threads dragging the floor. One of the oddest things a person can do is do, discontent to watch others through a monitor doing it too. Underpaying teachers. Leaving artists undiscovered. Telling children the education they receive in a box will somehow translate outdoors, when it won’t. My legends don’t play games. They invent them. Clearing fields and imagining finishing lines and pulling ribs out from their pockets so they can draw them out on grass. Its neat. But it isn’t time. Its pastime. Long past. There are aliens on their way to our world. Two thousand years stand between us and explaining Christianity to beings born out from stranger stars. We have to get our way of life together. Not just fun and entertainment. But teachable. Life-affirming. Progressive. If you care to make a bet, I assure you, we can watch statistics play out on playgrounds for the next twenty centuries. I in no way put it past us. Our entire existence will fade away to so much applause. The highest paid among us will play. They will be playing games. We will have to explain homelessness and starvation and holocaust and religious persecution and slavery and poetry and love, while our most rewarded citizens play fetch. I get the feeling star-beings will be unimpressed.

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