Pebbles slipping through the heavy mist hit the ground, causing micro earthquakes across a shattered ocean of faith. Devastation. Broken mothers, chests heaving like buildings before demolition. Why they cry. Who they ask, can we blame for these atrocities? Man sits back and slumbers, peaceful though we’re burned by acid rain. Beating hearts weep angry oceans; they bury their youngest in vain.
Where in man’s consciousness, where in those dark and heavy conditioned recesses did we strap a gun onto a seven-year-old’s back and tell him it would buy him freedom? How do we turn a blind eye when our brother reaches out an empty gnarled hand but we judge before we think to feed him?
Before we use our pointer fingers, before we say there’s nothing we can do, before we shrug our shoulders and say, “it doesn’t affect me why should I care about you?” Let’s ponder on a single thought. That one day, that could be you. And that event that felt so far removed, the loss you thought you would never have to live through, is now upon your doorstep. And god forbid that day does arrive, and for whatever reason there is no one by your side, and you’re forced to look into a stranger’s eyes, you pray they open their door and let you inside.
But should they? And why? Because if we are the ones that laugh when others cry, if we are the ones who pretend that ugliness will never die, if we are the ones who give up before we even try, then who can we count on when we run out of time? When we’re alone afraid cast out betrayed or plain old out of luck? When we’ve lost our way and need a hand but no one gives a fuck.
So maybe the next time we hear a call of distress, maybe the next time the depth of our empathy is put to the test, we won’t be so quick to close our eyes, won’t shut our ears to the tormented cries. Because that could be you. That could be me. That could be my lover, my brother, the blood of your family.
So if I see you on the street and I’m passing by, maybe this time… Maybe this time… I’ll stop and ask why
