Bullets are the gears of society spinning to a halt, breaking the chain apart, flying out of control. The hands that control those gears pull gently and pivot like dancers as bullets explode in a slow motion passage through which death often rapidly descends. Bodies fall in a staccato noise that channels fear to our ears. Their out-of-control spin is for sale, available for purchase at walk up counters, and comes in sizes and hardnesses, with different powers. Bought as a package of mini-explosions, accompanied by precision machines that increase their speed of flight to bring death to a wider area, taking down trust and respect and replacing it rapidly with dying.
All the noise, all the noise doesn’t cover the silent, immutable presence of death, of society spinning to a halt, leaning on insufficient cliches, “tragic,” “unspeakable,” as empty as death, as empty as the reason why, as out of control as our acceptance of somebody’s next purchase at the walk up counter.
~Beautifully written and powerfully true.
~I often nod my head in agreement as I read your comments, Walter, but today, you made me cry.
~Thank you Walter. This reinforces why I’m a proud subscriber to your blog.