There seems to be something cosmic about death that encourages a replenishing of the pen. When someone dies – the writers of the pen order a sharp box of new ink! The pencil sharpens its eraser to remove any potential bad news in favor of the preferred story to go with.
If you lived your life as a warmonger – present history shouldn’t erase the trauma and abuse you inflicted in the past. We’re socialized to think, that the moment you die, only your good things should be recalled. Ain’t it strange how we pardon the far away demise in favor of the familiar narrative of heroism?
How, am I supposed to look at the monster that destroyed and conquered the land that wasn’t his? Should I smile at him? Will my smile somehow convince him that my compassion means more than the lives he slaughtered? Maybe the beams in my eyes will illuminate his misery and cause self-reflection that may ultimately lead to repentance?
It’s probably just a dystopian myth led by Christian hope. Even in ‘progressive’ areas of the world, death is still dressed in a traditional garment. The pretended grief from strangers and sunglasses donned to protect friends and family to see underneath it all, you’re not even crying. When someone dies, our memories tend to go through the watch of time and we selectively hold on to the vision we prefer. Americans in particular, are so conditioned to valorize the powerful and defend the people rich enough to afford their own counsel.
I want to envision a world where my love and good vibes actually mean something transcending. but that’s a mission of the strange. It’s almost like reality is stranger than fiction but an illusion is as real as verified science. I can’t seem to grasp the undertaking of a volcanic eruption. The enormity of an explosion which causes lava to scatter to even the most distant villages.
Some people live very close to the volcano and built there entire life there. What about the people who live in areas where hurricanes are common visitors? Should they be worried when the waters come to take what they worked for? Death is not any more mysterious as it is – destiny. A life of shortcomings cannot make one tall suddenly when they leave this planet. Their legacies are what keeps them alive and an objective perspective helps the ash from spreading.
This month I’m taking a break from social media. (Deleted Twitter, Instagram, FB, etc – from my phone – and logged out from other Devices) I’ve called this pink hibernation – it’s already improved my writings and reading (just 3 days in). Social media can be a wonderful tool in bringing to light the sweet and sour grits of the world.
The troubles of life take a larger seat in our consciousness because they make the most profit. simply put, I’m exhausted from the usual annoyances kept at bay by news outlets. You can’t go anywhere too long without a complaint or reminder that tribalism is the new wave to jump on. There’s a lot to learn and I want to pay closer attention to processing information and to toil with silence whenever it comes around.
writing until the pen runs N2 paradise clarity! (by uniform & random means) 