This morning I sat on my deck having coffee and crying.
I sobbed and blew snot bubbles and just had a big juicy weep festival.
I wept for the monster. And I wept for myself, because I feel so alone.
Empathy is an experience of connection, but compassion is for me an experience of isolation. His fear and anger were so large that 21 children’s lives were required as payback. His mind caught fire and he killed those children because he wanted everyone in the world to join with him, to feel what he felt. I wept for the monster because I am able to do it. Who else can do it?
People name him “monster”, pretending they don’t understand. Then they shake their fist and point the middle finger in their car. They say he gave himself permission to commit evil, but they know that when their own mind catches fire, no permission to burn is requested. They create a mystery where there is no mystery. Only denial.
The dialog is about weapons, mental health, video games, media coverage, and cops in schools. No one wants to talk about the moment their own mind caught fire and what they did or said that they wish they could forget. Maybe it is just this way for me.
Maybe, in all the world, I alone am the honored one.
