It’s hard to mince words when others mince hearts for sport.
I am tired of the illusion of compassion, as if sincerity was nothing but a sleight of tongue. It’s saltwater killing butterflies that bloomed like dahlias, leaving behind an appetite for bad decisions. It’s a boxing rig in an arcade made for two players — it’s either you punch or you’re punched. It’s a sinking ship, but we’re all grouping ourselves based on numbers that mean a whole lot of nothing.
It’s the despondency that dims the soul, once childlike and almost innocent.
Compassion is framed as inspirational, except it only matters during the aftermath. Fatality is not a strong enough signal for an already dying society that sees it as a spectacle. Where death itself has a manmade industry, profit is just behind it, picking up blood and bones like currency. It’s guts and gore tailored all fancy, like a roadside carnival show for many to watch.
Because we repeat histories that shouldn’t have ever happened.
I wonder if it makes anyone truly sick that tears are as loud as waves crashing against the latest accident. The mirth that comes with the scent of movements is a poisonous way to invigorate change, and there’s not much we can do but sit tight. It’s an execution fit for a god with no love for its people — decimation by the digits, disaster by the days. The fight for a better tomorrow becomes a countdown to a loss with no other lessons.
Movements, reasonable or hilarious, fall apart eventually.
People are fireworks in both dreams and circumstances, filled to the throat with gunpowder. Oftentimes, they fall victim to the wrong person lighting the wrong fuse, and someone reports a body count bigger than bright futures. It’s a ride nobody asked for, and it’s plummeting deeper than six feet into the ground. If there’s anything left for mankind at all, it is history that tells a story of doom.
It tells the future that doom is a prophecy frequently fulfilled with unimaginable precision.
Perhaps Darwin was right with the idea of natural selection, because hatred is somehow instinct manifested through. Every knife stuck in a chest is a succesful hunt. Every refugee praying in a basement is lucky prey. Every nation that falls is just nutrition to something bigger in the food chain.
Everything makes sense even when the way it manifests doesn’t.
I am tired of compassion stained with red, worn, and called “rose-colored". The benefits do not outweigh how it was earned. The glory does not shine brighter than the last light in anyone’s eyes. The fame does not inspire life as advertised.
The future does not differ from a present built on skulls freshly harvested with every morning.
Though I may eventually decay with or without purpose, I still pray that demise is optional in achieving worth. It comes from the self, yet it only blooms when we return to dust — I pray no one has to turn to dust for a happiness left unwitnessed.
I pray we are happy while we are whole, long before we are not.