This starts the same for all of us: steering a row boat alone in a river of tears cried before ours. (Tepid tears because heat would imply action, would imply that there was something we all could do about it.)
Instead of seeing our own broken bodies reflected in theirs, we see all the ways this world has let us down by lifting only some of us up.
Powerlessness is the breeding ground of rage that’s as hard and unmalleable as a moment of opportunity squandered.
We are left searching for a language that distills our complicated experiences into something easier to understand. Distractions that make the mistakes easier to forget. The truck we buy. The status we post. The place we live. The children we have. Or don’t have. The news we watch. The bread we eat.
All our choices stem from the words we cannot find. Words we cannot bring ourselves to say.
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