What right have I to sit here and feel nothing? What chance?
The point of horrors past and future horrors dodged give no more comfort than does vindication.
I would be wrong to make it right.
What chance I’ll reach the end?
I am torrential. I am still. I am a haven, and a killing field.
What chance I’ll reach the end?
I am hot ash. I’m far too cold. I’m tarnished; I cannot be gold.
I could be a souvenir, but am a memory best lost. A thorn in every side. A coin once clutched, but best if tossed. A condemned amusement ride.
What chance I’ll reach the end?
I’m shaken till I shatter. I’m numb until I mend. Shake and shatter. Shake and shatter. Shake and shatter; numb again.
What right have I to sit here and feel nothing?
What right?
What choice?
What chance?
When everything you’ve become depends on comforting suffering, and tragic outcomes, what’s harder; living with the tragedy, or living after it’s over? And is numbness a relief, or a burden of guilt?