The words to communicate pain, frustration, and anguish are not coming. They might never arrive. Though, I also question whether my words are the ones that should be read, given the observable calamity we are witness to.
When I was a kid, I never understood what I was supposed to do during moments of silence. Reflect, yes. But my brain didn’t have the meditative maturity that it does today. My mind resembled a road runner across a moving backdrop, never landing on any one particular scene and passing by same thoughts without much care or concern.
Can silence have purpose? Does announcing the purpose of your silence nullify the activity?
Introversion invites silence. Usually a quiet evening is my explicit choice. This silence feels different. I am not trying to turn down the volume of the voices shouting for change, actually the contrary. There is a fight to give words to relentless abuse and disenfranchisement. I find myself wholly unsuitable to communicate the pain of those who carry the misplaced burden of ignorance in society. I cannot live it, even though I see it.
I struggle even to ascribe words to the heart break shared honestly and bravely by my loved friends. The aberrations reaffirm a moral ineptitude. We promise an American dream, but we are no longer held accountable to the fruit to be harvested after toiling in the sun.
Together, that’s our only path. We cannot go forward any further alone. Silence begets listening. Listening begets understanding. Understanding begets enlightenment.
I am ready to do and be better.