We are engaged in a great undeclared war, an epic struggle between tolerance and loathing. Between acceptance and repudiation. Between affirmation and wretched denial.
None of us will acknowledge the fight has begun. To the victor will go not only the spoils but the bloodied carcasses of the vanquished and anyone else who stands in the way.
War is hell, as if anyone other than the vanquished know what constitutes hell. The victor, by the way, does not always celebrate victory; and despondency does not invariably accompany defeat. This terminal struggle does not lead to anyone’s success; it leads only to mounting losses, disguised as an acceptable price of the fury of all-out battle.
When all is said and done, we finish the race which everyone loses. No medals nor ribbons will be pinned to the ones who complete the racecourse circuit. We will be dragged from the track, behind enemy lines, and stacked in protective heaps; rotting corpses reminding us of the smells of both victory and defeat.
