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I stare at the screen, blood-shot eyes bruised around with the little sleep I’ve gotten this past week, this past month—the whole entire last few years.
I stare, and I watch, and I wonder to myself: why are these spread so easily?
The crack of gunpowder sparking into motion, the zip of the whipping air—of all times, the moving pictures are allowed to exist for so long, by a machine that has always liked to build walls.
I stare, I watch, I understand:
Any kind of vehement words that I could face right now, that man—that man of a monster, that man who played a two-faced devil—that man would have said those same things, too.
Pointing fingers had been his favourite past time, tossing words into the wind as if the wind doesn’t carry messages to and fro— a purpose. Words thrown into the wind have a purpose, and when all the winds carry all the words, there are few winds left to carry screams.
My finger hovers over the button, fragile. I could turn this off right now, I could slumber in the silence and in the dark after weeks and weeks of unrest.
But I do not, I cannot, if the TV can still glow without an audience. That TV still glows, whether I witness it for myself or not, and until the glow ceases I cannot put this heavy burden down.
The danger of man is their mortality; the danger of man is what they can leave immortalised.