On another evil, hateful, murderous day in America I want more than ever to come home and snuzzle my dog. Text my kids how much I love them. Go for a swim. Have a big glass of wine. Ponder fleeting existence, purpose and grace. Question God. Once again.
I’m not incisive enough to know what the hell is going on. To understand what it is, not just here but around the world, with the unchained hate, the smoldering vile, the wanton and soulless ability to take aim at other human beings and propel killing orbs of hot steel and lead into their flesh and vital organs.
I despair over the numbness that gradually takes root one bombing after the next gunning after the next ambush after the next drive-by. I rue the snake-infested swamp that has become of public discourse, steroid-fueled by digital anonymity and vapor dreams of narcissistic grandeur, the dark cloud of doom and cynicism that grows distended even as I try to ignore it.
I cry for my daughter moved now to look two, three and four ways before venturing out in her new city, an adventure that should be filled with delight, but in many ways induces dread. On both coasts.
These are universal and eternal questions, but I can only join the Greek chorus of endless, unresolvable rhetoric: I don’t know what God wants. I don’t know what the sacrifice of innocents is supposed to mean. I don’t know why whatever I did today for money is supposed to matter. I don’t know what to tell my kids. I hate not knowing what to tell my kids.
Fuck you, gutless Roanoke coward. Fuck you, Charleston pissant. Fuck you, suicidal ghoul. Fuck you, pirate, monger, terrorist, zombie. Rage and beat the air, the recognition of birth and beauty is overwhelmed with infused poison, time-released with spiraling blades and smithereens of shrapnel for maximum wretchedness.
The reconciling teases, the reasoning defies. Rest in peace, tragic passengers.