Irrational Solidarity

Narrowly forgotten, our words can’t help but feel weightless in times of abounding tragedy. For the pen is mightier than the sword, an ancient proverb states. Aye, but little can the mighty pen do in the face of artillery.

My people weep. Generations together pitted with resentment. An arbitrary line drawn, pointing the needle in its one natural direction: never due north, never inward, forever outward. Far from where you stand, in favor of the wind, you allow burden to burgeon on down the line. To look inside would be to accept one’s own mortality, a frivolous pursuit in a world where accountability is locked within the floor whose ceilings are made of glass.

Like children we look upward, mine own eyes rebellious, but seeking guidance. To be returned with not contempt, not pestilence, but hollowness. Screams forever listened upon with deaf ears, for what possibly could a puppet have to say to its puppeteer? We move by the hand which takes our food; our breath feeble, hands and feet tied.

What good would it be to be cut free? For our bodies are held from above. Should we learn to walk, bills would need to be passed and laws enacted restricting how our newfound mobility be used. But perhaps that is a pill which needs to be swallowed, to be protected from ourselves, never mind each other.