I need a punch to the face

Something that I have been thinking about a lot recently is how it is impossible to know what it feels like to be anyone else, and how fundamental it is to know that.

SO i'm gonna try and share here how I feel sometimes. Not always; nothing is always, not even suffering, no matter how much it feels like it.

There is a weight battering round in my chest. There is power and springs and random collisions and it is fighting, fighting to get out of me. In my forehead and in my chest it presses.

At times like this I feel a good clean punch to the face would be the best thing for me. That it would drain my fucking stinking lymph filled pus throbbing infection of an existence. That it would be honest, and I would be real, and I would be able to do something that wasn't tarred by the past and by my badness.

Not my sins; i don't sin, noone sins. but still i deserve that sweet crack to the jaw and the brave clean pain to spread across my face like forgiveness.

On Tuesday, I watched a woman die

On Tuesday I watched a woman die.

Then I watched her die again. And again.

She died once for a repressive government.

Once for the power of the media in the people's hands.

Once to show the world these things.

And a thousand times on grainy film her eyes stared out and her nose and throat filled with blood to show me and others like me what we shouldn't let others see.

I didn't know, when I first watched it. Injury I can take. Injury I can see. The warm seas inside us don't scare me.

But they told me while I watched she had evacuated her body. The last process had been completed. I had seen her soul fly, and I wasn't paying attention. I wasn't paying to save everyone else from it either.

Again and again I watched the red flower, the sticky drowning from inside, the stare, the despair, the too-long raw footage and the closing of eyes that didn't close the story.

Again and again I made her die for me. And I didn't learn.