I can't breathe

Sometimes I think that the entire world is watching itself in its own movie (in technicolor), and is therefore separated from itself by that day to day, hum-drum curtain that most of us call "suburban reality". For some reason the violence - especially that of person to person - in all of its color is gutting and entertaining at the same time. The red is ultra red like Betty Page's sensual lips, somehow completely innocent and breathlessly sexy at the same time; the blues and greens blur together and beg for 3D lenses, or at least squinting eyes so that the brain can form a picture and make sense of what is being projected; the black tends to bleed a little and smears the defining lines that tell us that you are you and I am me; and the white seems too bleached and therefore false in a way, like the soft light that makes wedding pictures surreal and halo-y.

This deliberate, false "color" horrifies me.

I can't stomach the notion that people turn tragedy into politic. And what politic isn't a response to a threat, a repression, or to violence? Politic would seem to be a good thing, something righteous, an agent of change (!) except for the motives lurking underneath these ideals. There's always a motive.

It horrifies me that there is so much talk. The talk suffocates me. The news suffocates me. I. can't. breathe for all of the oxygen intake for talk. And all of you have heard the cliche that talk is cheap, and it is.

But then again, it's very expensive for some.

Nevertheless, we'll continue to talk and talk and talk and talk. We'll talk again on the same topic a year from now, on the anniversary of whatever we're talking about today. We'll mourn, and be stoic, and measure (in some sort of rational, concrete political terms) "how far we've come" until tomorrow, when we'll talk about something else, something more horrifying.

This makes me tired, and sometimes I just want to yell "cut!" and stop the technicolor so that I can take comfort in the dusty static, so that I can breathe again.