Modernities Morrow

What is that trechorous term, whos weight we cannot inherit, whos pressure sustains and dissolves us at it’s beckoning. Perhaps such is the feeling of one embedded in the fabric of a time unknown to itself, yet so perfectly sure of it’s necessity. How does one speak of a self-reflective epoch, when modernity wipes all previous memories into a thin glassy veneer? To reflect on our emergence from the pond water of yesterday’s imaginations, my poor poor uncivilized sisters how hard the brick that cracked the back. In popular opinion then, modernity is an elevation, an elation from inferiority to prosperity. Life became easier, cleaner, more controlled, - yet our anxieties find perhaps no relation in all of history, to speak to who in this lonely wilderness, why, we are the self assured ones, no? Pride raises us up above even Newton and his giants. It is difficult to ignore the propulsion which has taken place, there is no doubt here. Tomorrow’s leaps being ever greater, more prosperous than yesterdays. Can we cope with prospects of decline? Is modernities energy sapped, as if a simple designation that an event has passed can circumscribe the cracks left by the ground shaking. The recto to the verso on the leaf of modernity, the tired, unimaginative, senile declaration of defeat - what comes after tomorrow, well, the day-after-tomorrow. And so one wonders whether this is the term slapped on by thinkers exhausted by one of the central metrics of modernity - volume. Anywhere and everywhere. The struggle to birth the unborn - the morrow which lives in the current moments tensions.