We are told that life is sacred, but how?
How could something so sacred be taken so easily?
Treated so roughly?
Completely destroyed?
Life is beautiful, yes, but only part of the time.
Life is tragedy after tragedy after tragedy speckled in with moments of light.
Light that gets lost in the void of pain and misery that seems so symbiotic with life.
Were we always this way?
Living life only to suffer- to make others suffer?
Was there once a time that we were a species of love in this cold expanse?
Way back, some long time ago, could people live without fearing their own?
Part of me wants to believe that is true
But somehow, the belief evades me.
Perhaps it’s that I know how much we can hate
How deeply we despise
How a mother can look to her child and tell him to suffer
How a father can tell his child that he deserves no happiness, not if he has any say in it
And he has.
Perhaps it’s that I’ve experienced first hand the realization that what should be the purest love is conditional
That we can be dropped in a heartbeat over a simple disagreement
That everything they’ve done for us and everything we’ve done for them means nothing.
Life is sacred, yes, but there will always be the sacrilegious
And they do not rest.