It happens every time.
Every time, after every shooting in an elementary or high school, in a church or synagogue, at a parade or concert or workplace, in a lawmaker’s home. On a college campus.
Every time, our supposed role models solemnly call for thoughts and prayers, appeal for more civility, invoke our better natures.
And every time, they soon throw flames, vilify and blame, display the worst of us. These hypocrites, these merchants of discord then selfishly, even cynically enrich themselves by stoking still more division. They “couldn’t care less.”
Every time, I write darkly. I vomit my emotion and anger in grief for people I never knew, with fear at the impulses that drive these shocking events.
But every time, my words soothe less – and for less time. They are blown away and soon lost.
Because every time, my writing-as-therapy counts for nothing. Of course it counts for nothing. Against the ferocious weight of all that drives our violent culture, my grief means nothing. I am a single aching soul among millions in our age of vile discontent.
So Much Heartache
Have you read the Constitution?
Gospel of the Second Amendment
