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Friday.
It’s been a long week.
Spring is around the corner, but I dread the weeks are only going to feel longer.
I worry that the chill of winter will rise and fall before any concessions can be made to reverse the numbing cruelty that surrounds us.
I carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. No one asked me to, but I do.
I worry about tragic and grave injustices that are uniquely personal and obscure.
I spend evenings playing mental roulette. Russian roulette, in a way. I negotiate diplomatic solutions with myself for issues far outside my control.
My mind bends doing empathy gymnastics, trying to build compromise or, better yet, consensus on routine and worldly problems.
When I glance at my left hand, I’m reminded of my privilege to breathe and live freely.
Yet, when I glance at my right hand, my soul unearths my commitment to rise to the highest expectations of her own beacon-lit hand.
Perhaps this grief is a manifestation of guilt that I am here, and they are there.
Perhaps this worry stems from an amplified sense of personal responsibility.
Perhaps we, the people, can build and support an army of good if we just try with more might.
What if I, the individual, can be of service and contribute to a better resolution.
But tonight, stoically, I wait, and I watch.
I wait for the somber images of a democratic nation defending her freedom.
I watch with bated breath for the days to pass. To see if freedom will fall. Or liberty will rise.
It’s Friday again.
