The world is at war with itself.
This is the only explanation for the dreadful news coming in day and night.
I never quite know what to do with the events that trickle in from every corner of the world.
I want to find words, sentences that can string meaning together. But there are none.
We are not gods. We are not invincible. Our bodies get mangled. And we die. Yet we live as though this is not true.
My neighbour’s flag flies at half-mast today. For the 27 Australians who died. And for every person on flight MH17.
But then there is Gaza, and Syria and all the nameless nooks and crannies of the earth that are falling apart.
Maybe we are becoming hardened, building sheaths around the things that make us tender. To protect ourselves. To not have to deal with a world that is unfurling at its seams because it just doesn’t seem to stop.
But when we stand afar off and only point with our fingers we cannot know the things that hide behind tears. The things that words cannot express. The things contained in loss and pain. For these things, and for a world that is hurting, we should find some tenderness. These are the things we should take a moment and be silent for.
And hopefully they take us back to the beginning of things: to the understanding that life is a gift, and everyone’s life is precious.