Wednesday, May 13, 2009

The monster under my bed is a little girl

If you know me, you know I won't bat an eyelash telling you there are people I hate so much my chest could collapse under the weight, but nothing there is the material of monsters. Perhaps it isn't even the people I hate, really. It's the regularity of human failure and the frailty of justice. It's the experiences that end our childhoods, the first moment when life really isn't fair and the feeling tightening our chests overwhelms previous so-called hatreds with a pure and still darkness.

It's the regular crimes we all commit. Everyone is capable of anything. Perhaps sometimes I even hate the comfort of assuming others will not do us harm. People hurt each other every day. We hurt our families, lovers, best friends and strangers alike. Unfortunately, this is the tricky part. The vast scale of tiny miseries committed against each other absolves neither the crimes we commit unto others nor the crimes against us. The lord's prayer is a lie.

So...what can we do? No one is perfect, so we are all bound to fail. There will never be an end to small sufferings, but maybe we can reduce them. Awareness, responsibility, compassion and humility would probably be the recipe, but even one of those traits seems like a lot to ask of anyone, including myself. I don't foresee a day when I'll have nothing to hate, but I like to imagine one when I'll have less to hate. It's less than a one-in-a-million shot by my own cynical calculations, but hey, a girl can always dream...and try.