Ramblings No. 1

To stare up at the sky, anywhere, would all look the same. Inky darkness.

Living in the "Old World" puts the ideas in the "New World" In perspective. 

My initial feeling is the long age of the land. Not that the land looks old. The length comes from people. The length of time, large numbers of people came and cultivated, established. 

I come from a pace where history if recent, yet fleeting. We struggle to hold on against new lands, and when we get our fists among the earth we are liable to rip it up and destroy it. Hungry for power against death. We must have industry, for the sake of profit. 

It brings its blessings. Health, life and casting aside ruinous illness that would snuff you out in grim ways. Slow ways. 

It brings unblessings. Curses? We don't see them as such. The wireless togetherness. My ability to send this out into the void of eyes and bots. The warmth, perpetually, so long as you work, hard or not. My food, free from effort. From being bent over the wheat field, barefoot in the garden, or hungry in the woods with naught but sticks and stones.

Once I looked at the old world with towering awe. The history, in every stone. Blood of battles seeped into the grounds. Lines of kings, queens, and history pushed into the crown. A crown built on the bones, the fists of the long dead. And we from the New World ape for that which is still remembered. We want the old, the things different, yet still us because this is where many of us came from. 

But as I am here now, with stones rising from earth, I can't help but look back over my shoulder to the place I left. 

The people there where for some time, unrecorded. Far more, their history was only carried by voice. Passed down, down, down to the next. 

It is the land that calls to me right now. Under stars. Under open or storm-tossed skies. The wild land. The land where despite our ripping, still is very wild. Deep black shadows in the woods, there, fill me with both fear and pride. 

Pride that the old world was late enough to not bury its fists so deep. Enough recognizing the wildness as more than an act of the devil. 

Perhaps this is a raving of a person who is homesick for some other landscape. Most likely this.