The animus of enemies and the silence of friends.

The only thing more painful than the hatred and animus of enemies one never asked for, is SILENCE in dark, troubled times, from the “friends” one has made.

Standing in one’s truth sometimes means standing alone, or nearly so. I’ve always understood that. I guess I’m finally getting around to accepting it. I’m willing to pay that price, at last, but doing so is . . . jarring. And disappointing. And lonely. Very lonely.

But it’s honest. And righteous. And it MATTERS. And I suppose it’s better to know exactly where I stand, even if that’s alone, than to think I have support and friendly ears — open minds and hearts — where I don’t. And yet, that doesn’t mean I don’t wish things were different. That I don’t still wish the people I whom I call “friend” read my words and HEARD what I and millions of others are ACTUALLY saying, rather than whatever self-centered — literally centered on their self — propaganda is playing in their brains. Because it’s literally not about “you.” It’s just not. No one’s trying to spare your feelings. And no one’s trying to hurt them. YOUR feelings are, in this case, not a factor at all. Nor should they be. Because THIS is not about YOU.

Even I get tired of beating a dead horse, however, and this horse is little more than rotted skin and some crumbling bones.

I don’t have faith in a lot of things or a lot of people. But when I lose faith in that relative few . . . my world is less bright. Feels less worth fighting to make better. At least for myself. And I’m slowly accepting that the world I’m fighting for, the change and equality and justice and empathy — the BETTER I want to see in this world, is not for me. I will die on the path to it, but I will never reach the clearing. And if I had children, they probably wouldn’t, either. Human life-spans are only but so long, after all.

That being said . . . I AM willing to fight for that eight year old who got lynched and those at risk of the same. And for THEIR eight year olds, down the line. Maybe if I do, his/their (grandchildren’s) world will be a slightly better one. And their grandchildren’s grandchildren’s better, still. Maybe. That, at least, is something. And really, that’s the best I can hope for, I suppose, in the damning silence of “friends” and “allies.”

(Thank you, Cathy, for again, being an exemplar of bearing up under the despairing, awful weight of unvarnished truth. And for doing it with dignity, class, passion, and bravery (and humor . . . last, but not least . . . humor). Thank you for making me feel less alone in MY truth and the truth of multitudes. Thank you.)

. . . just a beetle with opinions and an internet connection. You’ve been warned.

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