When This Blows Over

t four A.M., in a part of the globe that scarcely
registers a blip on any Western handheld device or
permanently mounted exhibition screen, a monstrous
scud missile pierces the night air and finds its mark,
demolishing dozens of civilian homes and creating the
sort of havoc, bloodshed and misery that typically
accompanies a ruthless stealth strike on a sleeping city
with a decidedly unfortunate location. The devastation
wrought by this unprovoked attack can hardly be
exaggerated. Upheaval and ruin are a couple of words
on a page, until you’ve actually lived them…breathed
them in your lungs…felt them in your joints.
The malicious act is viewed as indefensible by anyone with
even an ounce of intelligence, a single gram of common
sense, or a trace amount of reasonableness lurking anywhere
in his or her body.
The wise are wary of that most unpredictable of all entities:
the lightning bolt streak across a dark sky that is man… full
of such promise, but also so full of it - in shockingly random
proportions that crisscross the entire range of credulity…
featuring all manner of wonder, astonishment and potential,
packed into one big steaming pile of erratic ego-based
dynamite. Considering the habits of this wily beast - the only
species that kills for sport - the ensuing counter-move is all
but pre-ordained. It became policy … became resounding
principle … on the very first playground, against the very
first bad guys, in the very first round of the wildly haphazard
human game.