• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 09
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Wilful Blindness

This much I think I understand: you cannot shield your eyes from it. The world. The chaos. The relentless grey. Though wilful blindness offers comfort of a sort. The caress of silk on skin, the swaddling of tender eyes, the sense that good will prevail if you just turn away a while. Just wait. Just hope. But beyond the cocoon, the world still exists. And it will find a way, it always finds a way, to slip between the cracks. To permeate.

This much I think I understand: the roar of a mob does not dissipate. Anger is always carried by the wind and yes, it gathers volume in echo chambers. But a roar is an expression of something. And it is not always hate. Or rage. Or misunderstanding. And you plug your ears to it at your own peril. So listen.

This much I think I understand: bitterness is a residue that clings. It is never truly washed away. It erodes, decays, bores down to the roots and if you are not careful runs to poison. You must swallow it down and swallow hard, allow your gut to get to work on it. Break it down, without blood or rancour.

This much I think I understand: an embrace is always welcome. Skin on skin, nerves firing, the rush of endorphins to the brain. It can promote quiet contemplation. A moment's reflection. It is a sense which knows no colour. Red, white, blue. Brown, yellow, pink. It does not matter. So reach out. It does no harm.


Wilful Blindness

Can you? Can you smell it? The sour odour that seeps from every thing. Do you retch, recoil, reflux? Do you run from it because you recognise it for what it is? Can we agree we know what it is? That it is is fear.

Because this much I do understand: Fear. I see it, hear it, taste it, touch it, smell it. It fills me. And it leaves me flailing because I sense a sadder truth. That what I understand is nothing.