I feel nothing. I’m supposed to feel something . . . Something is supposed to hit me, shake me, break me into some semblance of acceptance — isn’t it?
But there’s nothing there. I want to be happy. I want to feel relieved. I want to celebrate like the majority of this world but I know this is far from over. The damage is done and really, how do we undo it?
Where can we start? What needs to take place? So many movements. So many lives lost and this one victory tap-dances on our hearts and it feels . . . other-worldly — as if the programming of its occurrence hasn’t reached the highest ratings and we’re still waiting for the go-ahead to breathe.
I still have unearthed breaths tucked in from unjustified killings stabbing me in my gut — I can’t find an endpoint. There is no safe zone.
And people laugh and clap their hands loudly and join along in the grand hoopla of it all while I shelter-in-place with my damaged spirit.
Tell me, what am I supposed to feel? I carry this verdict with me, bury it in my faulty vision, blink away the madness of it all, then settle on the unclear view.
“It’s a start,” someone says and I can’t help but hear my trapped voice rebut, “It’s your start. I’m finished.”
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