sounding the fury

Grace is imaginary, it does not exist. Or, if it does, it’s like Einsteinium, some rare element that only exists for moments in a tremendous collision of atoms and protons, there and then gone again, unsustainable and ephemeral but somehow elemental on the periodic table of humanity. For most of us, careening through life, stumbling over our emotions and actions, grace is not a constant state – it’s nothing more than a few moments of dignity that you muster during a fall. Hobbes descrived the human condition right – nasty, brutish and short (an apt description of me, incidentally), and yet, under the fiercest pressure, with protons smashing around us, every now and then we manage to create, for a few moments, this rare element of grace, before it evaporates, leaving us alone, our knees torn and bleeding, and packed with the more basic elements of human existence – pain, humiliation and anger. And maudlin, I suppose.