One day, this world will be nothing but ash and rubble
but in the ruins of these cities, my skeleton will be sitting there, middle-finger poised upwards towards the bomb-shelter doors of the politicians' hatches where they nest tactfully, pleased at their survival of the utter and complete annihilation of the civilisation they prized themselves upon enforcing.
The very men that greeted us to pay them votes with little crosses in small boxes to make them less weary of small boxers, buying us in with empty promises and empty heads and mouths full of lies and lunatics.
But you know what?
When they step out of their underground houses to find the wasted desert where the trees once grew. They may never admit what they should've done to stop the world dying, but they will witness that there is no one for them to do their bidding, no one for to re-build their world, no one for them to talk at, to vote for them, to give them petty approval of their severe childhood insecurities.
And that's the small joy at the end of the path we walking.
We are so caught up in the theoretical, the purpose of life, the thinking, that we find reason to never to do. The who we could vote for rather then the what we should be voting for, the who we should help rather than the how we can help, the is it all true rather than the simple acts to STOP CLIMATE CHANGE NOW.
Because with this lack of action we are letting people destroy our lives.
But they do it so subtly, with such genius that, like a bullet heading towards us, we don't realises it's going to kill us till it hits and it's too late to move out of the path.
But we can hear the BANG BANG BANG of the trees clashing the ground to make paper notes that line someone else's pockets.
We can taste the bitter feeling of the news article reading CO2 is too high, too much, too little, too late?
This isn't a debate about reality.
It's a debate about laziness, a debate about survival, a debate to debate the purpose of having a debate.