Burial Orbit

In the last century technical progress was inspiring, frightening, changing art and people. New types of energy, terrifying weapon, launch of the first satellite, the first man in space, flight to the moon. Dreamers, scientists and science fiction writers dreamed of new worlds in dreams and in reality. The naive belief that just a little bit, just maximum of fifty years – and we will meet someone reasonable and kind. We will land on Mars, colonize Ceres, and if other worlds wouldn't be glad of our presence, we can negotiate, cooperate or invade them. Social rise and dreams of science fiction authors flowed from the tips of their fingers through typewriters right into our souls. Then wars had turned the progress from old friend into dangerous beast and the future had turned from hope into threat. At first the martians of Ray Bradbury, pretending to be our friends and relatives, had planed to kill us, later the Alien jumped out to us from wide screens. Blade Runner started the dark, terrifying, but insanely beautiful cyberpunk. My generation grew up on horror of the unknown from X-files and Stephen King frightened with his aliens, whom it is impossible neither to understand nor to win. The enormous expenses on the space program with delayed and dubious results sowed unbelief and hopelessness. They showed the fragility and transience of human life in comparison with the scale of the cosmos and the impossibility to solve quickly the occurred problems. It became clear that for the further progress they need big money and long years. Perhaps, not one generation of scientists. With hopes for the miracle. The miracle did not happen. And we got tired to fear. The time of hu,ility has come, the time of hopelessness, the time of value loss, the time of Melancholy, claiming we are alone. Dream has spoiled, is forgotten, buried alive under the pile of consumption, introspection, fraudulent practices and dubious achievements. But while we are here, spending our lives on obtaining goods which we don't need and slowly we rot in the world, in which there is no more continents, waiting for its opening. Maybe someone in the depths of the distant galaxies has been still waiting for us.