Justice? Whose Justice? Justice for whom? For “us?” For “them?” For “all?”
Of what do we speak when we speak of Justice? For what do we ask when we ask for it? Let us not delude ourselves so with our pretensions of righteousness. Let us call for Justice, yes, but let us do so with fear and trembling. Let us be aware of the full gravity of the matter.
How many of us would perish in the instant that Righteousness began to reign?
Black filters of nuanced words seem to dribble into my head. Like a paper shredder dispensing those documents that have sat on your desk for the past month and a half.
You say “these are just endless endings.”
Such words showed such solidarity in the dark it matched that of an ember slowly gleaning the remnants of lost trees with hopes of never growing and leaning.
"But aren’t you tired of not knowing?"
Suspended seasons and lackluster reasons are all I have left and they blanket me in my tundra of fortitude. Fixated and nauseated and truncated are the words I bequeath to a heart that never slowly beats, but is ripe with blood-red passengers that travel in pairs one, two, three times a week.
My “significant impasse” she would say.
A synonymous air to that of her vacant offspring that left her to in the middle of winter to visit the beaches of Germany. It was in vain.
“We have these doubts” she timely toned
“They match that of the ocean. And it is in these doubts we swim as truncated instruments in the hands of divine misfortune”