Perhaps the fear is in facing my own dwindling humanity. Or maybe that loss is more widespread across the species than I am currently admitting. Or, at least, so it seems on much of the surface.

The issue, that argument too often neglected, thinks I, is whether our humanity is even all that great to begin with. So often the term is associated with our better deeds, judgments and means, yet having just finished a recounting of the whole of human history written by a futurist thinker from a century ago- humanity is not always its better self. Seemingly, more often than not, we are horrible little creatures. Might be why we seem so eager to forsake autonomy so seemingly easily. To give as much of our consciousness away as possible and to surrender our thoughts and emotions for something prescribed, predetermined. Right up to the modern subjugation of algorithmic maladies and cheap tricks, cowering from a life so real we might destroy ourselves upfront rather than risk any further breaking.

Forgive me, if you will. I saw a play this weekend. The very existential type of affair. It was fantastic, and starred a friend. Black box theater joint, small cast, single act, possibly all some surreal metaphor more than anything else, all elegant and chaotic. I fed into it and it feasted upon my soul. Certainly more in line with what my spirit needs than not.

Though, as a confession, it made me miss the stage myself. Feeling as though I was in the wrong part of the theater. In the darkness among the masses, instead of pouring out soul beneath the lights. But best not to dwell too much on that.

But this show consisted of five characters, all different yet all with the same vague and universal struggle. All aged about the same as your humble narrator, they all fought with the place they found themselves- physically, emotional, philosophically- yet each in a way unique to the different being both written in the pages of lines, and as goes with that magic of live theater, harnessed likely through the idea of the struggle with each and every actor. There was a line, among a good many, that struck me when said. The titular character said, played by my insanely and multi-talented friend, in midst of her barroom self-analysis, stage right, facing the audience, she said-

‘I still only get offered the one life, and I still don’t want that one.’

And though that isn’t exactly aligned with the mind I hold upon this fading Monday, I confess, dear reader, that is a thought not entirely abstract to me.

But that was the struggle, or part of it. Each character whether outwardly or otherwise, held dissatisfaction for the state of their being. Be it via boredom or something more consequential, each in their own way expressed a deep desire for change. Either circumstantially or just metaphysically- they each ached and burned for all this ‘what is’ that they seemingly no longer can stand, to perhaps miraculously to become some deservedly better ‘what will’ be.

The kicker being, of course, that after all the beautiful and powerfully emoted dialogue, soliloquies and the sort (kudos to the excellent cast and writer)- they all are essentially in the same place. Even if they believe that something had changed or was about to change, nothing had and nothing will. The cycle of ordinary life continues among the broken beings. And Godot will be here any minute.

And yet, while the meaning interpreted from the production might reflect an endless existential cycle- I don’t believe the message to be an indelible and unavoidable fate for all. Sure, the cycles of seeking change can so often only produce more of the same- but that doesn’t mean it will always. At the very least, there is an end for each of us, grim though that reassurance might seem. But it is proof enough that change is a possibility, and lends to the argument that it might be possible elsewhere, as well.

A line jumped to mind. All this talk of theater and philosophy and life brought a tune to mind. A short string of words from within that melodic mantra-

‘As if the promise of pretending, was a beginning, not an ending.’

Maybe that is the problem with our waning humanity. The pretending not of what could be, but the ignorance of the less than ideal what was and what is. That the truths don’t match the idealism, so we so often toss away it all to some contrived otherwise, or sometimes back into the great nothing at all. Too trapped in some form of idealism, we find ourselves unable to accept the real. Reject it for some prophecies, even if already denied or dead.

And from that ferments the vitriol outward. Anxious or agitated or aggressive by what we see as incongruities- we lash out in varying degrees, from passive-aggressive or masochistic, right up to diabolical and genocidal. We sedate and berate our better senses and bereft of benevolence wished for, we conspire among and against ourselves and others to perpetuate that insatiable indifference and indignation. We damn ourselves and others when the change goes a way we don’t believe it should, or goes seemingly nowhere at all.

Maybe it isn’t accidental that hope is so often associated with fools.

But to think a fool as something less, well, that would be ignoring one of the key beauties to our overall humanity. Lest we forget who always famously speaks truth to power.

And a fool I am, for certain. And still as I did in younger days, the idea of being a fool fills me with pride and purpose. Because to accept entirely what is, is to concede that nothing else can ever be. Does that mean everything is within our power to alter? Of course not. And maybe it is only madness that allows enough perspective to truly be a harbinger of hope- but I still think it something else. That key essence to our humanity, that element I fear we might be capitulating to our technologies and other undesirable habits.

Our imagination.

Because if there is anything left of our humanity left worth saving, it is that. The creativity of mind that allows us to bend realities inward and outward to create a world more set to satiate the spirit that any one of us with a modicum of functioning consciousness still sees as inescapable.

And maybe that is the struggle I’ve been facing. The fight for creativity. The battle between the arena of imagined futures and a forlorn and failed passive acceptance. The will to wonder enough to bring about something more concrete than just conception. And not that thinking it so is enough to will such change into existence- but without that profound style of pondering, there is no chance of making anything other than decay await our future selves.

I cannot say which steps to take for either you or I, dear reader. Not in any exact way, and not in a number of steps that go very far into the abyss of tomorrows. But as I couldn’t have guessed quite where it is that I am now from all my assorted yesterdays- I have to claim that the possibilities onward still hold something for my imagination to play with. And even if it is some version of pretend, I still aim to carry on with it. Mindfully, of course, as the treacherous footing of the fantastic can easily bring about demise.

After all, as my favorite writer once wrote-

‘We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.’