I’m haunted by a billion questions.
And I say haunted because they’re questions without answers.
It’s been twice said that I should be a lawyer.
And it’s twice been because of the constant questions.
And I cry, I sob, on the cell phone’s other end or in others’ arms because they’re questions without answers.
And they’ve always been the same questions, aggressive confrontations of evil: Human beings treat each other so poorly. With outright abuse. With smiling betrayal. With gossip-laden disapproval. With pure indifference.
They write us off and you better believe that they justify it.
They write us off and they justify it so they’re never tracked down by remorse.
And if remorse leaks into their conscience, they can’t humble themselves enough to acknowledge and affirm the pain of he or she or you or me whom they’ve trespassed against, and it’s even more inhuman.
And so my questions go without answers because evil’s fundamentally irrational; human beings don’t know why they treat each other like objects, oftentimes to be simply discarded—they just do, and they never second guess.
But that theoretical truth about the irrationality of evil doesn’t stop my tears from meeting the carpet, and I’m not in the business of acceptance: Not about the evil within my own heart or the evil from without.
And so I match my billion questions with a billion tears.