One lands on an altar. There are many ways to get to altars, and many different altars. Power, ambition, money, love. One can climb on an altar, purchase it, get it as a gift, be thrown onto it.
One keeps clinging on the alter just out of fear. The magnificent statue of whatever God glances at the floor and shivers. Just one creak and the statue will smash to the ground, the precious, silky marble scattered in countless splinters which no one will ever be able to put back together.
Our life is a but an up and down of altars. The word derives from “to feed”, the desk where human beings offered their Gods a sacrifice, mostly other animals if not other human beings. Blood-thirsty Gods. Or it derives from “high”, where we now place ourselves, equally blood-thirsty and merciless.
How breathe-taking would it be, to blow all altars at once, to grin at the clash of supposed greatness turned into dust of greatness. And then walk through the ruins realizing we cannot even enjoy our echo, as there would be nothing, but destruction.
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