Usually I use Saturday to post a reflection about writing and its process, hoping through that rumination to unlock some secrets about my own work or to unblock the filters that periodically need cleaning out.
But I’m not in the mood to ruminate, or to make light, or to ponder the mysteries of life and the blank page.
This morning I’ve got an indescribable rage in my heart over the events in Paris.
I could say it’s a white-hot point of light in my chest, but that doesn’t explain the cold detachment I feel. Maybe it’s more like a stabbing lance of pain in my gut, but that doesn’t jive with the dull numbness all over.
One way or another, over one hundred people are dead this morning in yet another terrorist attack, and I’m just dumbstruck. My heart is breaking.
How long can we allow this to continue?
How many more sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters have to die in the name of a twisted religion before the rest of us agree that it’s time for that religion to go?
I try not to traffic in hatred and despair, because I don’t think there’s much to be gained there. But on a day like this, with over a hundred dead and the savages responsible celebrating in the streets, it’s hard. It’s really hard.
If I were the praying kind, I’d pray for Paris.
As it is, all I can do is hope that maybe our world leaders will decide that this is the line, that this is the time to drop the hammer on these stone-age degenerates once and for all.