Being Utterly Modern

There you are gazing into the water as it coils around the pier, hoping to decipher its tidal language, divine a message in the slow lift and fall of the swell, the soft lapping sound echoing through the dark shadows below. But whatever is here seems to have withdrawn deeper into itself, far beyond where your senses can reach or your uprooted mind can go, severed as it is from the origins of its own creation. You are of this age, utterly modern, purged of myth and deaf to the spirits that once moved here in the water and roamed the land, the sung sagas of your ancestors. In the isolation of this cleared world a terrible silence has fallen in which the only sound now is your own pulse imprisoned in the confines of an ear.