Simba was a jackass

To fill us with wonder, they tell us that we are made of stardust. When we gaze upon the infinite vastness of the starry sky, we look not only upon the light of fiery suns as they were billions of years past, but also upon our distant cousins, whom the universe birthed in one spectacular explosion of abhorrence against singular nothingness.

To fill us with peace at the prospect of oblivion, they tell us that we are eternally preserved in the endless cycle of matter—that we are born, that we live, that we die, and that we eventually are returned to the earth as the fecal matter of brainless, invertebrates, only to give life anew to the very food stuffs that will nurture our posterity.

To fill us with happy resignation for the fate which none of us can evade, they tell us that for everything there is a time—a season for peace, a season for war, a day to celebrate new life, and a day to mourn its passing. Some preach that there is a plan for us all, and others tell us that we simply must make the best lemonade we can with the ingredients at hand. Many, even tell us that it is not the end, and that souls, much like the dust ejected from stars so long ago, are perpetually preserved, to be judged, loved, or exiled from paradise by an omnipotent puppet-master as befitting the quality of our lemonade.

But today, they said nothing, as I bathed the man who used to wipe my shit-stained ass when I was too young and too clumsy and too spoiled to be trusted for the task. Today, I brushed his rust-stained dentures, washed his oil-caked gray hair, and soaped his wrinkled back—the man who well into retirement, boasted a head of full black hair and always seemed well groomed, even when restricted to the blandness of Mao-suits; who once, hurling fish-bombs and firing a red ribboned mauser, ambushed Imperial Japanese supply ships; who, after enduring years of political exile and sporadic imprisonment remained vigorous enough to raise a parent-less three year old (albeit with the help of my grandmother, a small army of aunts, and a nanny whom he seduced).

Today, I have watched the wheel of life turn and I can find no wonder, peace, or happy resignation. Today, I want to scream throat-tearing curses at the stars and tell them to keep their fucking little recycling program, for it is about inviting and wondrous as a bucket full of worm shit and I'm starting to hate lemonade.