Denial

Denial....a secret seashore where I thirsted, but the waters were dry

I wrote a name on the sands but the sea winds rushed by

Desire, love, hope; all a mistake

I let morning come and changed my life

The thought of having survived is accompanied by the thought of having escaped. As I stood watching the blood and death it took me some time to realize that, once gain, I had been spared.
It is during these moments that I wonder if the universe works according to a plan; a mechanism of its own which is beyound our understanding perhaps solely because we ourselves are deep within its folds. It is at these moments when every human act belittles itself, every argument disappears and philosophy bows down to the happening....yes the final occurrence.
What I am talking about should not be confused with destiny, I do not believe in destiny. It is too inferior in its workings. It makes us fragile; it gives us small hopes. It asks stupid questions such as "Why me?" or, stupider still "why not me?". No, destiny is merely a glimpse, perhaps even a fake one to distract us, to mock us.
What I am trying to say is difficult to explain. I am not a prompt believer. I doubt too much to be able to explain things which I feel. I lie too much about what I feel to be able to convince the violence of what I felt that day as I stood at the scene of debris and death. No, I can never explain the moment, the minute and the difference of one split second which alters everything.
It is not about death brushing past you, no. Its about the sound . You close your ears, you cower down, you turn away. When you let your ears go your fingers are covered with blood. And when you turn back you stand still for a whole minute. You do not run, you do not see and you do not hear. Only a something, a feeling that cannot be named, violently tears away everything inside you. Dominates you, plays with you, paralyzes you. You realize that all this while you have been foolish, and billions have been foolish with you. Man has been vain. A fool even in defeat. A lunatic made fun of and played with, a toy. You feel small in the greatness of the massacre, yet big in a maniacal way. You feel one with everything- with the living, the dying, the slaughtered, the slaughterers. You feel huge and minute. You feel broken and amused, exultant and lost. In one minute you feel everything there is to feel on this earth and then you feel nothing. Somebody moves you , someone else shoves you. People are running away from the scene, some are running toward. Prople are crying, the dead are gone. The dying are in mortal pain, like you. You go where the crowd takes you. Like a particle in a wave. Their pain is your pain. Their death , yours. Their lives, yours. Your love , theirs.
And then, after a long, long time, after the madness and insanity, it dawns on you, the final finito, that once again, you have been spared.
There is suffering, great suffering, in such realisation which comes in the end......

And now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth
let's not speak in any language,
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about,
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve,
and you keep quiet and I will go.

- Pablo Neruda

Have you ever chased a firefly? They cannot be caught. Or yes, they can be caught but then you must let them go. You cannot keep them, they look so beautiful flying. You open the window for them to fly out. You are scared because you think you will suffocate the little things. And when they are outside you see them dancing; little bits of fire sprinkled in the darkness. Its mad...so mad that you regret.
And yet, its never the same thing when you have them; here in your palm.