We inherited this broadly spaced territory from blood. Not that our case is exceptional – rather it is universal. But it is worth noting on occasion. What we have come into came first from blood, a genesis sea as wide and open as the plains they birthed, and on it a black ark carrying aboriginal voices off into a distant muteness.
Over these plains so begotten we laid down the highways to bypass the purposelessness of their dried emptiness. Then the history and destiny of the place could be ignored, along with the new-come peoples who found themselves dumped on its soils. Even they walled themselves off into cities with time, defining without reason or causation their lives against and apart from the old blood plain upon which they set their feet and looked down on so as to avoid the horizon. As well pick a wave in the ocean and name it and call it unique from its brothers.
This is not a fiction or an essay. It may be a poem. It was inherited from blood for it was inspired by the plains upon which its writer lived and walked and from which he drew his inspiration. When we acknowledge this we suffer under the knowledge that everything is given us of blood, and without blood it would not have come by any means.
This then is the death of peace, and though violence is a sin it must not be banished for it is also life, the wellspring of all good. No stones may be cast yet they must be cast lest the dance halt and the dancers die. This was the principle set down which later dictated the bylaws of gravity and light and their brethren. This is the essence of the level plain, which any other wise would not have admitted any motion whatsoever on its equal and sparse expanses.
This is why hope trembles, and yet blood fears more, for so long as it exists it births its demise.