I heard the news today. Another bombing and the bloody display of chaos and body parts simmering with the smoke and fire that symbolize the tyranny of our foul existence.
Day by day in some small way — I acknowledge the futile efforts of a maddening world trying to rebuke the charges of destruction and murder that follows ever step we take.
Walking down the block in West LA — the sun beaming down my cheeks and the sky egging me on with the dare to refute its beauty.
I imagine the ravaged terrains in places like my hometown that play host to an impeccable battle between evil and evil.
As hot as the rays of the yellow god filter through my blouse — the burning ions that graze the villages and huts to nothingness steam me into realization that my reality is not real.
I am not alive. I’m merely existing as I wait in line for my cutated covenant to read me to the ground.
Where I join the party of children who watched their mothers and fathers scream for their mercy. Where the souls of the mislead and woe-begotten comfort each other as they make room for more.
Each reminder of the ongoing lesion to humanity isn’t an unbelievable occurrence because of the city so bright that alights your privileged memory.
Damn you! It’s happening all around.
The driver at the spot at Beverly Hills who eyes you with quiet notation. The Metro conductor who opens the doors of the train and maps the tracks for practice. The pilot who lifts off into the arms of the moon-filled sky as you doze off without warning.
It’s an epidemic. You are not special. You will not survive.
Not this time.
The globe is dark. The embers of assignment have broken through and the reveal is pain everlasting.
Be prepared and be humble. Scroll and highlight or retweet with sincere might but the distance between you and the factors are closing in.
The world is hurting and we will not make it out with bodies intact.
But the spirit is hungry for attention. Feed it.