Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Rise of the Majority

An outdoor party, sun-dappled afternoon...

... a tuxedoed string quartet, chamber music wafting on the breeze.  Wine-sipped serenity, islands of polite conversation dot the expansive back garden of the five hundred year old estate.

Serenity, even as the collective western consciousness pauses every so often, a mental fidget, worrying over the inevitable march of the majority, trickling in, but soon to burst forth.

"But how can we begrudge those flocking to our doorstep?

"What human being, lost in the darkness, lonely and cold, would not be attracted to the farmhouse with glowing windows?"

"Exactly!" Cries a nervous man, crowding in at her elbow. "It's a disequilibrium.  A minority cannot monopolize the promised land forever, excess abundance thrown on trash heaps, milk and honey spilling on the ground, wasted, washed down drains." He quits as abruptly as he started, retracts himself from the conversation, self-conscious at his spontaneous outburst.  

The woman across from him, a cracked and faded portrait of youthful beauty, protests.  "No, no, we brought them Western Civilization, billions in aid..."

A bearded man, white trousers and blue blazer, regards the woman with sympathy.  He clears his throat and the chatting stops.

"The glory, the heady rush as your boots first stir the dust of an exotic foreign land, people peeking out at you from windows and doorways, everywhere eyes. Breathe in the air, shared by a hundred generations, and set to the task of pouring new wine into old wineskins."

An inhale, the conversation sits perched, then the man continues.  "The conquest, followed by foretold disasters, the shoulders shrug, a nation politely averts its eyes and celebrates a triumphant return anyway... Banners, parades, embossed medalions of base medal dangling from bits of colored ribbon ...  All for saving or destroying some far-away collection of people huddled in huts of mud and squatting around dung fires."

The old man casts his gaze past the white-tipped mountains, green and granite, over the fields and forests, past the roaring seas.  The far horizons he once patrolled lay splayed and sprawling before his mind's eye. "Then, they follow you home."

All Roads Lead to Germany...

... And England, Australia and the United States...

The World's Congested Migration Routes

Osmosis, inevitable,
Gravity most grave
Constantinople falls,
Nothing to save

National Geographic - The Worlds Congested Migration Routes

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