The present controls the accuracy of memory
more than the past ever could.
Often, in some shitty sports bar or cup of coffee
I have tried to summon the ghosts that kiss me to sleep at night.
Who knows what lies I have whispered to those shadows and plumes of steam?
I find that I feel guilty for any injustice that could be imagined,
even if it existed in fiction. The mere names of countries can fill me with dread,
knowing that at any moment my brain will begin a demonic litany:
Years, numbers of the slain, names of villages that are no longer villages.
And why should I bear the hate of mankind
upon my shoulders as if they were broad enough to hold it all?
I do not mean to suggest that I identify with the victims or their families.
I do not believe that I am capable of any such emotions,
but many times I have worn the bloody boots of monsters as I drift through sleep.
When I created the world I never meant for any of this to happen.
No comments:
Post a Comment