No one is quite sure who he was. Or at least the mythology makes a right hash of it.
Man, god or Titan. Titan surely, because he stood above gods and men, principles unwavering.
What we do know is that he liked humans, mankind. Which as we know is the original sin, unforgivable by the old horrors who called themselves gods and acted like a passel of pedophilic, fornicating, warring, rooting animals so lost to their pleasures that their entire reason was devoted to justifying them.
Sure, they said they did things for the good of humans. And sometimes they might sort of have, sideways, accidentally. Athena gave the Greeks the olive, after all, but you can bet — more or less — it was accidental to some other scheme of hers. Or perhaps she wanted to see them struggle in vain with the more-pit-than-flesh bitter fruit. Who knows?
Mostly they did things for their own good, and covered up their crimes with other crimes.
And then Prometheus, man, god or titan, who cares? went and gave the groveling, stupid, dirty humans fire.
Fire. Power. Energy. The ability to have that fire, that power, that energy do work for them, so they need not work themselves into early graves. Smoked meat, that means you don’t need to hunt every day. Food that’s easier to digest so babies and elderly people eat better. And by the by, the turbine, the nuclear plant, the car engine.
And light. Don’t forget the light. Light to see that the gods, presenting themselves as beautiful and golden were really a scabrous collection of old horrors, the old demons of mankind feasting on despair and making things more difficult for humans, because they can.
So they chained him on a mountain and had an eagle eat his forever rejuvenating liver.
Brother. He got off lightly. They probably wanted to do worse to him, but let’s face it, demons are utterly devoid of imagination.
Which is why they need the dark. And they try to make humans even more miserable than they themselves are, all the while trying to sell us on the idea they’re noble and perfect gods.
Perhaps it’s true that this is the only time this has happened. That this is the only advanced civilization of mankind. If so, whoever created the old myths had our measure and their measure: the measure of humans posing as gods, pretending to be something more powerful and special and holding others down in unending misery.
(Waggles hand. I’m agnostic on the matter. I’ve taken note of both the woo-woo insanity of the “lost civilization” crowd and the way the genesis of modern man keeps receding into the mists of deep time quietly, in official channels, by serious scientists, until soon it won’t make any sense with the rest of the biological history of the Earth. And since I can see sixty from where I stand, I cackle my old woman’s cackle, and touch the side of my nose and say knowingly “There’s a lot going on we don’t know nothin’ about.”)
What I do know is that we’re living through a new phase of a very old war. Very old.
The old horrors who think themselves gods, and don’t believe in anything greater than their own petty and dissolute will and pleasures, are trying to drive us down to the dirt our ancestors escaped. Sometimes quite literally: banning machines that wash, and water that cleanses, even though the justifications make no sense.
And they’re trying to turn out the lights. They need the lights off, so we can’t see them for what they are, and so we can’t communicate.
We need an army of Prometheus. We need people who reject the obfuscation and gaslighting.
We need people who find ways around their petty restrictions on energy.
We need people who hold the light aloft and say “Those aren’t gods. They’re very naughty spoiled and superannuated children.”
Be Prometheus. In whatever capacity you can, shed light on the truth. Hold aloft the torch. Make the darkness, the evil, the hatred of humanity recoil.
What are they going to do? Chain you on a mountain and have an eagle eat your liver?
Is that worse than make you live in filth and darkness fearing your own thoughts?
There is no choice between cake or death. It’s just the eagle or forever darkness because a boot is stomping on your face, forever.
I know which one I choose.
I’ll continue holding up the torch. If you do too, soon enough the darkness will run out of places to hide.
On the count of three, light up your torch and lift.