Not a blog post, or why the world deserves to burn

This isn't a blog post.  This is a written sob, an exasperated cry out at the state of the world.  There won't be any pithy comments, or even any valid reasoning.  There won't be any useful information, or inspiring words.

There is the myth of the "world hating Gnostic", the idea that Gnosticism as such entails despite of the material cosmos.  There's something to it.  I am a Gnostic. I believe that the world is a prison of the soul, under the sway of Archonic forces that wish to weigh us down, and prevent us from seeing the vision of our spiritual homeland.  I believe the world is filled with people so asleep to their own souls that they sink below the state of mere beasts, who have the excuse of innocence for their barbarism.

What has lead me to say this, now, of all times?  Is it the political corruption at home and abroad?  The ongoing civil wars in Syria and elsewhere?  The anti-gay legislation in Russia and misogyny just about everywhere?  The ongoing slaughter in central Africa?  No.

It's this.

This is the picture of an eleven year old boy, a beautiful child, who was so bullied because he liked My Little Pony that he hanged himself.  His name is Michael Morones, and he's lying in fucking hospital bed because someone decided to make his world a living hell because he likes Pinkie Pie.  You can read about it here.

And I've lost it.  Again.  I can't look at this picture and not find that the world dissolves behind a veil of tears.  This is our world. This is what we have made. A world where a sensitive, sweet eleven year old kid sees no recourse but to make his exit.  A world in which a child can be driven to try to take his own life by the hatred and anger of other children.  The world is broken.

I'm not entirely without hope.  We do what we can do.  We hug our children and we tell them that we love them no matter who they are.  That our love is unconditional.  We support our friends and we reach out to our families.  We rage, we pray, we cry.  I cry a lot.  I cry more than I pray because it feels like the prayers fall on the deaf ears of gods who long ago abandoned us to our own hell.  Pictures like this don't help.

I'm trying to find a way to end on something like an upbeat note.  But when I look at Michael, lying in his hospital bed, surrounded by some of the few things that offered him comfort in this world, I find myself at a loss.  So I guess I'll just cry again.