Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Number Eighteen

The violence goes on.  Taking our children.  All over the world.  For profit, for revenge, for a rite of passage.  For belief, or in the name of god.  It is made from the myth of belonging and not belonging.  Of family vs. strangers; of the good people and the different ones.  The different ones are specters of evil.  The different ones can be killed.  Driven.  Used.  They die invisibly.  They make up the nightly body count, each demise a measure of success.

The violence goes on -- as if we were not all part of "the whole."  As if we were not here learning to love.  As if killers would not have to learn to be victims.  It is passed on, our violence merely deepening the amnesia.  Helping to forget what's all around: The sound, like a constant wind, of souls trying to be heard.

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