And the young man/child who committed it in my RL hometown. He was 15 years old. He was bright, good-natured, friendly, and had a nice smile. I know these things about him because I read his obituary. I also know that he put a loaded gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I wonder about the circumstances that led him to this final, desperate act and I feel pity for those who drove him to it. They know who they are, I don't. They know it was their bullying, their peer pressure, their cold, calculated meanness, that tipped the scales too far in what surely must have been an already unbalanced mind.I say unbalanced because at 15, all those hormones are going crazy, all that quest to become ones self is happening, all that spread wings and find a place to belong to begins, and all the self-doubts and confusion that goes hand in hand with growing up. And in to this mix they - these people whom I pity - threw in relentless persecution, subtle insults and blatant cruelty,. His peers. I wonder if they regret.
We never know what a person we encounter may be going through in life when we address them. If their day is good or bad, if abusive family life occurs or addictions or job-related stress. Each person we say hello to - or ignore - is potentialy a walking time bomb. Each one with a scale of their own, waiting to be loaded towards good or bad...and perhaps the next injustice will be the one that tips it. And perhaps not. We have no way of knowing. With that in mind, I renew previously made vows to myself that I will strive to be kind in all my inneractions with others. Humanity demands it.
I wrote a poem about a youth I used to know - she was also committing suicide - in a very difrent manner.
Your sacrificial altar is your arm,
with wounds that weave the cloth on which you kneel.
The Deity you worship is self-harm,
yet you can't cut enough to reconcile
your innocence with what you sacrifice.
Why do you volunteer to pay the price.
A sharpened knife unsheathed upon the floor -
so easy, within reach, a brief respite.
A little cut, and then a little more ...
a battle that you wage throughout the night.
The coming Dawn reflects upon the blade,
and blood stains tell me all your debts are paid.
It seems that every time your Gods aren't pleased,
it's you who pays the unforgiving cost
with drops of blood, and once they are appeased
your focus fades, and all you are is lost.
You strike the match and burn within its flame,
as cutting deeply drinks upon self-blame.
Your eyes meet mine, ashamed; your blade takes pause,
I will not look away, you need to know
how many people bleed when your blade saws
through veins that far too often overflow.
With love and understanding you can win,
it's time to heal the cuts you have within.