I am crying.

Thunderclaps outside my window bring flashes of images burned into my retinas.

Each tremor reminds me that “safety” is a contentment we have slipped into and only stands to make us complacent. “Safety” is a lie.

What have we done to allow our home to be infiltrated by those we call neighbor, brother, lover. Those who would be our nations brightest fall victim to anarchist ravings written on the backs of cereal boxes, we are shaking.

Screams filled the air that morning as runners, mothers, and soldiers begged for answers.

Why?

Does the fear of the innocent, the pain of the few, stand a chance of fixing the foreign world we have thrust ourselves into? No.

When home supplies are considered parts for weapons manufacture we are not safe.

The false idea that a band aid cast from the mold of soldiers’ blood and ripped up uniforms could possibly heal the wounds caused by men with sadist purpose is wretched.

This is what we bring home when the sand from foreign deserts cakes to boots too heavy to wash.

How many will die before we learn our place?

How many innocent lives suffer before one person…just one, finds the strength for non-violent resistance reminiscent of old heroes?

Tell me, where’s your resistance?