We had the dream when we were young. We believed that there might be something in our future. There really would be. It wasn’t just this lonely room, this place of now, more than a lifelong drift toward an abyss, the same from which we had emerged. We moved and did, sat and listened, and then hunched, thin, dreams not what they had been, instead looking into a screen, our hope now in that, the expectation, then knowing how we made our-self something we had dreaded, a dream made memory. But there is no such thing as regret. Or just a bit.
“And what’s become routine, of course, is the response of those who oppose any kind of common-sense gun legislation,” President Obama said. “Right now, I can imagine the press releases being cranked out. ‘We need more guns,’ they’ll argue. ‘Fewer gun-safety laws.’ Does anybody really believe that?”
There is no debate on guns. There is only fear and hate.
There have been over 85,000 gun deaths since the Sandy Hill shooting in Newtown. 85,000 people. Dead.
Albert Camus reflects on the nature of persecution in The Stranger:
“You won’t do your case any good by talking,” my lawyer had warned me. In fact, there seemed to be a conspiracy to exclude me from the proceedings; I wasn’t to have any say and my fate was to be decided out of hand. It was quite an effort at times for me to refrain from cutting them all short, and saying: “But, damn it all, who’s on trial in this court, I’d like to know? It’s a serious matter for a man, being accused of murder. And I’ve something really important to tell you.” However, on second thought, I found I had nothing to say. In any case, I must admit that hearing oneself talked about loses its interest very soon.