Ramblings Post #239
It is the mature person who realizes that tragedy is a very personal term, localized to the individual or small group who connects to a given situation in a specific way. It is the wise person who realizes that just because tragedy is personal does it make it any less horrific.
I want to call it an incident, so as to not glorify the actions of the perpetrators, but its too much more than that now and the term doesn't do the pictures I've seen justice. The world is clearly much smaller than we thought. This whole thing is shocking on a number levels, in the sense that the concept of the mall has become universal, and though the idea of indiscriminate killing was fresh in our minds, the scale and the particularly graphic images set in locales that closely resemble those we walk through every day sharpens our perception.
Half a world away, yet just around the corner.
I have on my kitchen counter bookends from Kenya. I know they're from Kenya, because Schmoopy got them for me. She's originally from Kenya. I met her when she was still fresh and new, nights on the chat at work, me explaining American idioms and her giving me a better perspective of the world. She goes there once a year to, I guess, keep in touch with reality. Another few months it might have been me sitting up waiting for a text to let me know I could breathe again. She's become like a little sister to me in many ways.
I can offer to those who have seen the horror or have felt the pain little other than prayer. I hope that it is enough.
It is the mature person who realizes that tragedy is a very personal term, localized to the individual or small group who connects to a given situation in a specific way. It is the wise person who realizes that just because tragedy is personal does it make it any less horrific.
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| Nairobi, Kenya. Africa in the 21st century. |
Half a world away, yet just around the corner.
I have on my kitchen counter bookends from Kenya. I know they're from Kenya, because Schmoopy got them for me. She's originally from Kenya. I met her when she was still fresh and new, nights on the chat at work, me explaining American idioms and her giving me a better perspective of the world. She goes there once a year to, I guess, keep in touch with reality. Another few months it might have been me sitting up waiting for a text to let me know I could breathe again. She's become like a little sister to me in many ways.
I can offer to those who have seen the horror or have felt the pain little other than prayer. I hope that it is enough.
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