Murderers.
That's what I said.
That's what we are. I'm convinced.
Not by the sheep we keep killing night after night. Not
by the fact that some of us actually call them sheep, or human resources, or
just dinner.
Not by our social behaviour, which closely resembles vultures, or hyenas, and
only very remotely reminds me of our human origin.
I'm convinced that we are murderers. Because I am. Because he is.
Now I'm waiting for this insight to trigger something inside me. Just anything,
as a matter of fact. Doesn't need to be a frenetic outbreak of rage. Not even
a hysteric crying fit. One or two tears would be a nice treat though. I'd even
be contented with a quiet little depression. But all I get is quiet. Dead quiet.
I watch the storm ruffle the clouds outside, occasionally throwing a handful
of dry leaves up in the air. Lightning shows up from time to time, almost casually,
and vanishes again before I've even had the chance to acknoledge its existence.
In spite of the wind, the air is thick and would be hard to breathe if I had
to.
If I had to. What do I have to do? To feel? The sky is burning with passion,
and yet I only feel choked. Silenced. Dead quiet.
Where is the flame gone, the fire inside that was so hard to quench on occasions
that seem so meaninless now? Where is resistance, denial, rebellion? Where is
fear, my beloved queen?
I implore them to speak, to tell me, what am I without them? Who am I supposed
to be? Who am I?
They are as silent as I am.
Must be because I am a murderer.