It’s always been hard for me to accept that I can’t help everyone. That the circle of life never stops circling. That there will always be pain. That there will always be violence.
Tonight, in the forest outside The Porch, we heard growling. Punctuated by whimpers. Rustling.
Mom was going to throw something. Try to break it up. The violence I can’t bring myself to picture and yet can’t help but picture. But she dropped the ball back in the basket by the door. Said there wasn’t any more noise.
It’s so easy to feel stripped of my power. Imagining that violence outside my walls, the violence outside my country, taking place on lands I’ve never seen.
Learning about the violence inside my country, taking place at the fast food restaurant down the street.
My first reaction is hopelessness. It wells up like a tsunami, buries me in oxygen that I can’t breathe. And it takes all my strength to swim upward.
But I do.
The air tastes sweet in my battered veins when I breach the surface. And I rest, learn to accept that I couldn’t help the whimpers outside. Not this time.
But maybe the next.
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