How low we can go. These killers, these suicidal fanatical devotees of destruction, these prophets of despair, bitterness, and devastation, they bring home how far we have to go. How far away we can distance ourselves from ourselves. How bestial and bloody and pathetic we have become, stuck inside of our blind armored suits of ignorance. How lonely and desperate, disassociated by untouchable airbrushed images of desirability, broken apart by inability to connect, unable to relate to the lines drawn to direct flows into grids, chaos into consummation. Fragments. Shards destroying innocence. Corrupting all the outer world to communicate your despair.
How hard is it to enact the simplest of connections. To reach across the void into another human heart. To reach across the void into yourself, to voice words from this emptiness, to articulate out the stretch of separation. Maybe because we are afraid of what will be unleashed that has been pent up and waiting. Because the words that are revealed may not be easy, may not be perfect, may not be boxed, defined and put into a frame to hang, to admire. Because to speak this inner detachment is to struggle. It is to expose your vulnerability. It is to hurt. It is to become a human creature, to be imperfect, mortal, and needing to be held. Needing to be loved. Needing to be understood.
A gun is a tunnel into inhumanity. Nothing will ever be healed or resolved or advanced through weaponry. Every new weapon manufactured and sold is another tear in the fabric of our connections to each other. How we are crawling to escape these rifts, how we are running, bolting our doors inside of ourselves, shutting the windows of our minds.
We are scared of strangers. We are scared of our hearts. We are scared of the unofficial information that waits to flood into our minds when the TV or radio is off, when there is only silence, and we are scared, and we are alone, and there are no words that we yet know of to communicate what we see there in that place within us. The lights that flurry behind our eyelids. The knowledge that simply being innocent will not protect you from anything. The knowledge that we must plunge deeper into suffering to root out this evil. We must go there daily. We must go there with every other person in our lives. We must go there and connect these places inside our hearts to each other and build heaven here on earth. Not from superficial pretensions. Not from lies and deceit. Not from weapons and warfare. Only out of the softest, most delicate, fragile parts of our hearts can heaven be formed.
How do the students who were there that day on that Virginian campus feel right now? I think I might have an idea how they feel. They feel like they are black holes in the darkness of the night, that there is nothing to protect them, that there is only despair, and pain, and this dark emptiness inside that cannot ever be breached, that cannot ever again be healed. That they have lost some part of themselves. And they have. We all did.
And we will continue to lose parts of each other until healing is officially sanctioned, not relegated to fringe hippy new-age books. Until we recognize that every action we take has a consequence. That every product we sell creates a stream of waste. That human beings need each other, not holes in which to hide. That what we feel is real. That what we imagine can happen. That despair is everywhere, rampant, dominant, wreaking its havoc on the outer world. But that love is here and ready to be unleashed, and how close, and far, we are
to allowing ourselves to be loved,