In the face of tragedy, I see more answers than questions, but I see more questions than ever. I see a lot of rhetoric, and a lot of people telling themselves the things they need to make themselves feel better. Somewhere between the helpers and heartache I see hope. Somewhere in the midst of despair I see gratitude. And for every thing I see, I feel the impact exploding in my viscera again.
I see the venting masses pour words through their squealing kettles of mouths as the waters within them boil beyond the point of maintaining silence. As the vapors of rage and fear condense on minds that once were clear, I wonder if we will ever overcome the barbarians beneath our own flesh.
Violence brews in so many as reactionary as ever, and empathy escapes seldom for the one who needed it most. Parents holding their children tighter out of fear of loss, while another mother lies dead. I hold my children tighter, not so much out of fear of loss, but out of fear of what they might become elsewise.
It occurs to me that the only answer that can ever be found can be traced to love and the lack thereof. It doesn't make me feel any better, it doesn't raise the dead, and it doesn't radiate hope. For so long as we cower more into ourselves and lock our children away in impenetrable bubbles these things will inevitably continue to happen. For so long as we continue to think of the innocent dead as "better off," these things will continue to be tolerable. For so long as we continue to ignore our role in everything, we can not change anything.
I do not tolerate it, and the only thing I can do is to continue doing what I've always done: Lobby love for loveless, and kindness for those who seemingly least deserve it but most need it. It may not be the answer, but it's the only one I can find that makes any sense to me at all, and yet it still doesn't account for so much of what goes wrong in the world.