Girl Half Empty

//What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in//
- Simone de Beauvoir
/June winner of the diary competition/


43. //we should never play with guns//

3rd December

This morning, while a red sun rose over Syria, I delivered a war through people’s letter boxes and I felt like I was Death – caught in the simultaneous ugly and beauty of life. I’ve hardly seen a sunrise so damnably perfect. It was so intense it seemed almost like a theatre-lit back screen and yet it melded into the clouds above with the dexterity that only natural things achieve. Terracotta, crimson, scarlet – the lights swirled like subtleties in a paint pallet infused with firelight. A progression of drying blood stains to taint our myopic, self-righteous justification of sin.

I began my morning angry with a cereal box and then my eyes hit the headlines and I realised what I was. I was the kid who runs round the neighbourhood one morning to tell its inhabitants that darkness now sits upon their shoulders. Who passes them the lies that things like this end by Christmas and that ours is the path of the virtuous. I realised that I could not continue to be angry about a cereal box when I was betrayed by a government I was too young to have any say in. Because I was that kid with the bike and the front page defeat for peace – helplessness is my natural state.

My anger was like a choker made for a smaller neck and I realised that my breathing was as laboured as that of a dying man trying to climb the stairs. And that’s what my hope was – ninety-six years too old and heaped at the foot of a flight of unconquerable steps. Because who can have hope when the people who live beneath a government are better informed than those who run it?

All I could say to the front doors I was feeding was ‘don’t shoot the messenger’

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