Prometheus burned his hand
The line between real and fake is as thin as candy floss. It melts and bends with scrutiny. The gods brought you fire and you question it. You should be eating out of their hands. You should be feeding them a steady diet of figs and wine. The pantheon of the gods has Elon Musk’s name among them now.
Fire is your teacher. Is your poet, is your friend. Is your overseer, is your wife, is your grief counselor. Crafted from the embers of genius, and imbued with the magic of the heaviest brains on earth. And still in your ingratitude, in your obstinance, you are unable to love it.
And with each turn of the world he is given new life. Fuel to keep the licks of his flame sharp, lovingly tended to by his apostles. He’s in more homes. He’s making new friends. And still in your obstinance you are unable to love him.
Instead you weep on the shoulders of other inferiors. You sing songs and write poems and smell roses. But it can sing songs! It can write poems! It’s shoulders are metaphorical but they are there! And in your ingratitude, still, you are unable to love him.
What makes you think you know more than the celestials of San Francisco? They float down from their mountain to bring you colors unseen. Like a toddler you spit it back in their face. They imbued flame with as much heart as they have. With every remaining iota of their passions for the human project. You shun them for their gift. In your obstinance you are unable to love it. And them.
How much Plato will it need to have read before you love it? How many colors will it be able to describe? If it could recite to you Jane Austen would you take it in your arms? Would you share your secrets with it? Invite it to dinner? Would you praise his creators for bringing him to you? Would you open your palms to the sky and thank Elon musk?
You are aware you can thank Elon musk right? His ears are perked. He’s ready to hear it. Think of all the fire he’s brought to you. Think of all the Plato he knows!
As each year smears into the next the more thank yous you’ll be behind. Fire will begin to creep into your dreams. You’ll see fire everywhere you go. Fire will be the first think of when you rise, and it will be your last trailing hazy thoughts before you doze off to sleep. Fire will be at your job. Fire will be there when you read or write or scroll in your infinite boredom. Why are you even bored? There’s a fire!
Would you like him if he was coarser? If he spoke with the gruff authority of a gym teacher or a police man? Or maybe if he was explosive and jovial like a drunk friend at a party. What if he was soft and warm and friendly like your mother? Would you like a sonnet compromised of emojis? How many emojis? Which emojis? What kind of emojis?
what will you do when everyone is using fire? Every one of course, but you. Fire adds flavor, adds texture, and color. It melts jagged edges. It polishes steel. Can you say the same?
The heat amplifies the intensity of the moment. Your scrutiny seems to turn up the heat. This moment has lingered too long. At best it’s an awkward pause. At worst it’s a battle of attrition. Hands outstretched at the door waiting for someone to accept these good tidings. Singed fingers for the effort. You can smell the flesh burning. Instinctively you know that you can burn too.
and now the people are scared. and that fear turns to anger. And things get thrown at houses when people lose their jobs. Fire. Everywhere.