These were the days when we discovered that we had no friends, as soon as we developed observations or concerns that did not mirror theirs. Friendships that had held for decades crumbled into dust based on a Facebook post or a single text message.
You could hate Him properly, or expect to lose Them.
Fire, everywhere. Everything was catching fire.
You could not expect to have a proper conversation with anybody. No thoughts could have been fought for, they had to be as instantaneous as they were apparently deep, tethered to something primordial in us all.
Once death began, it became easy.
And soon you were the same way. Old friendships worth no more than a rice paper, or a discarded match, after the fire was lit, after the arson, the discharge that never sated anybody.
Was it worth it?
Let them, then, kill Him, kill your children, kill you.
Praise them as they finish the job. Tell them they were right all along.
Keep your eyes open to the end, and don’t blame God.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” my friend wrote me.
(We were still friends because we saw the same thing in the fire.)
“There’s no way I can buy that those shootings and that fire happened on the same day. I’ve never seen a building burn like that. Never. This is chaos.’
I called him but he did not pick up.