"The darkness drops again, but now I know,
That twenty centuries of stony sleep,
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
Some people in my life question why, oh why in the world, how could I possibly enjoy watching The Wire, the First 48, True Detective. It's just, so dark!
Or why I chose the educational path of Criminal Justice. How could I have possibly enjoyed the summer of 2006, interning with the C.I.D. Homicide Unit?
Well, I'd say, for slightly the same reason I cherish the above poem, the given excerpt being the tail end of an amazing poem by a fellow Irish brethren, William Butler Yeats.
For as dark as this poem can seem, it gives me great comfort.
Immaculate words, captured by the immortal pen, in the year 1919, written for and during the despair and utter hopelessness of World War I, a time when no one could be certain of no thing.
The words are written proof, that even though now we think that in 2015, the world is going to shit, well, the world will be just fine.
For if it didn't happen then, and what better time for it, the Apocalypse, then when exactly will it happen?
This poem stands as proof, that every single generation leading up to it, and every single generation following it, thinks, or knows, that this is it. That these people are a new breed. That these are end times.
Yet the world continues to turn.
And yeah. It gives me great comfort.