The Shredded Narrative We Cling To In Fear

A better world is possible, I believe that. Even if it were not true it would be worthy of our dignity to make the attempt. And all that really prevents us from trying is the narrative that a better world is not possible and the trajectory we are on is the best of all possible paths. This little, broken, narrative. That the best we can expect is to work our lives away in the hopes that we might purchase a comfortable seat on a train to oblivion, that we might one day be able to accumulate enough wealth that we can purchase our own underground bunkers in which we can watch on Ultra HDTV images of what the natural world used to be.

We cling to this narrative like a frightened child clinging to a rag doll, mistaking comfort for safety. A narrative that insists the risk of trying to make a better world is not worth the risk of not having heated seats in our SUVs. That the mere gamble of going without an unnecessary luxury like Netflix or the newest game counsel is too great a thing to ask of anyone. That a Serengeti we cannot jet to is one not worth preserving. That armed robot dogs are inevitable, but drinkable water for Flint Michigan is not. A sick, pustuled narrative.

We cling to a rotten and ugly narrative like one clinging to an anchor in a sinking boat. Accepting the idea that nuclear holocaust is something we’ll always have to gamble on from time to time, that it’s simply not realistic to sacrifice the economy to slow climate change. That while we may talk about coexistence, the only thing REALLY keeping us safe is our domination over others. A narrative that says happiness can only be purchased from a corporation and that we are not right in the head but need pharmaceuticals to make us how we are supposed to be. That the lesser of two evils is the best good possible and that pragmatism means surrendering everything that gives life meaning. That the smell of line-dried laundry can only come in a spray can and that food cannot be grown without trademarked bioengineered seeds.

A better world is possible, but we have to leave the old one behind. While once the old narrative sparkled like a new casino, now it sits like an abandoned mall. There is no reason we should not leave it but one: we will have to — each of us — go alone. We’ve been meaning to leave it, have been trying to cajole others to leave with us en masse, but we keep ending up where we started, more hopelessly stuck in the narrative than before.

We have to go alone. We each have to have the moment of saying “That’s it, I’m done. I am building this illusion no longer. I will not be part of something so ugly, so destructive, so wrong.” And though this will not free us, it will begin our unraveling process, when we start to liberate ourselves from the tattered tapestry, knowing that our sacred thread should not be wasted upon such an ugly image.

It is a choice you make. Alone. You must make it alone because it is only when you are alone that you will find yourself. And finding yourself, only then can you begin to connect in meaningful ways with others who know themselves, help lead others who are trying to find themselves, say “no” to those who think they are serving themselves by selling an ugly narrative.

A better world is possible. Fear and hope tugs at you between the old and new. Between the cocoon and what lies outside it. What lies outside may be unkind, because nature is not always kind. But nature is unkindest to those that refuse to evolve.