“No more space in the morgue at a Palestinian hospital so they started storing [kids’] bodies in ice cream freezers.” I’m not inserting any opinion here, just expressing the ache in my chest at reading such morbidness while I sip away at some cola on a soft couch in a house I could complain about being too warm–screw it, I’m satisfied. And it hurts.
We are all children, despite wrinkles or the weapons in our hands or the podium before us. We are ancients of energy, infants of Earth. Petty squabbles over naive idolatry is no different than screaming until we are red in the face because we don’t understand why we can’t just eat dessert before dinner or why we have to go to bed at a certain time. Unfortunate, how age cannot cure us. Age, oftentimes, cements ill behaviors.
My mother would repeat what her mother once said: “no parent should ever have to bury their child.” But we do. And what next?
“Blowing things up is easy,” Jon Stewart said on the broadcasting night following 9-11, almost thirteen years prior to this blog entry. Anyone can destroy anything. The universe will (is) destroy (-ing) itself. The stars will recede. And what next?