We are shellfish filtering all the anguish of existence through the gun barrel. We never existed as a humanity but only as self coerced live stock. Often, one of us pierces through the imaginary fence, slaying the self backbone until one's empirical life bleeds to death near the inexistent heaven's border, on the shore of the sewaged hope.
Repeatedly, one of us takes one's incapacity to evolve to the peaks of a mayhem within the herd's pen. One of us as a single person or as a multitude of individuals; the words are many but the most common describing this behavior are: militia, army, religion, government, business etc. – all of them deriving from belief.
Most humans die of inhumane consequences caused by humans. Tragedy, therefore, is overrated since it is an indivisible part of the mundane.
A soldier killing 13 and wounding 31 (numbers are irrelevant – just retelling current facts) of his own fellows represents a tragedy while bomb slaughtering thousands of non combatants are a mere casualty of war. Life is life and, regardless how one curbs it, represents murder (sperm dropped in the uterus is not life, ok?!).
I used to cry to funerals until I realized that I was taught to do so. Now, in out of time, I look at corpses as I caress the leaves in the fall during their seasonal glide toward the cement. Periodic.
During a no particular autumn, sitting on a bench I stumbled upon, I was wondering what the leaves would do if they were able to surpass their yellowing condition. Would they rust each other out? If that, then by what means? If two or a multitude of leaves would duel in a war, would the branch be indolent at their killing spree? Would they form a religion on every different branch just to find an unreason for skirmish? Would they really have a war for a better position onto the twig? Could photosynthesis be a motive?
Then, I looked at the sky and I enjoyed the brawl of clouds. The spectacle was free and after all I didn't care much about the vapors.
Dug deep in the corpses of leaves, spanning across concrete, clay and puddles, was a yesterday's newspaper fluttering in the evening's chill. On every page was an image of a murder surrounded by even bloodier words. Maybe the trees, after all, needed the humans' blood shed in order to regenerate in the spring.
Who knows. The fallen yellow won't say anything beside a squick under the shoe.