It’s easier to stay this way, in the dark (surrounded by light, provided by my own understanding). To creep by the news of a fallen world, the tragedy of life, and to live blissfully unaware. You cut out cable, turn off social media almost entirely, and focus wholly on the things that surround you. And only you.
Your camera lens doesn’t even angle out, it’s 50mm lens fixed to your eye. Your view is so narrow, you can’t see it coming.
I have this huge vision for life, this hunger to taste it all. To see and do and hear. I want to feel the weight of the experiences.
But I want to choose them, too.
And I can’t. I cannot. I can hope for, I can even plan for them and then the world hits me.
On a muggy, sun-shining day: everything’s all right and yet it’s all too far gone. And it’s hard. Really hard to look forward and not straight down at my feet. It’s hard not to peer behind me and want to run as fast as I can back to yesterday, or the day before … before anything bad ever happened. Way before I understood what might come my way.
Or what might pass me by entirely.
A group of 7 kids drowned together in the tornado aftermath that hit Oklahoma yesterday (source). That one sentence won’t leave me alone. It won’t go away.
I can take all kinds of news and death, but children break me down. Because in that pool of water all I see are the backs of my own kids’ heads. Bobbing, trapped. The last thing they might have thought? Was it fear? Were they calmed? Who was there to hold their hand and usher them into the safe feeling before they left us forever? Who was standing next to them?
Because I wasn’t there. I won’t be there, I can’t. It’s physically impossible to protect them every single minute of the day. I can’t even protect myself most of the time. And it didn’t happen to me! This huge thing isn’t affecting me, but it is. Because the world’s children are scared.
And it’s not supposed to be that way.
And I’m angry and it hurts.