To be a child.

There’s a picking bird underneath my brain, pick pick picking.  Between the conjunction of spine and tissue, in a dark little place. A dead little bird.

There are many who boast of their love of truth, who, in truth, are only interested in what they see to be “new” and are quick to make their nobility known. Does one consumed by noble desire have time to complain against lies?

There are also many who believe in “common sense” as a virtue – as the only of the every – and that deviation from this common carries folly. Have current convictions been immune to the spiral of history?

The tragedy, is that the young are getting younger, and the old are getting foolish. Innocence broke a long time ago, and though the larger shards have been gathered, there are still so many grains and slivers without meaning. What are children now but ignorant screams hushed by ignorant ears?

Now, little bird, listen.

I cannot stop you, you have been given authority. I cannot kill you, you are already dead. I cannot silence you, you are too quick for me. What I can do, is give you the attention you never asked for, and ask,

“Who are you?”

EDIT: [9/11/14 12:46 – Something just clunked into the window next to me. I’m not certain, but I think it was a bird!]

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