Such an even, rounded number. When you hear it on the news, it doesnt echo fifty open closets now slammed shut. It doesnt remind you of fifty different souls, with their trials, thoughts and capacities blotted out forever, without warning, without reason.
Fifty is a heavy number. Even now, I can see the greedy hands of history smudging fifty separate identities into a cohesive number, a mass fallen under the feet of one lonesome, warped mind.
I try to think of these people, these identities an hour before their fate brought them together forever. The consciuousness of fifty people is an amazing thing, when it is blended within a thousand more. I try to think of their hair-colours. Imagine the range, the texture, the curls and strands flying and dancing in neon lights
And now lying on cold gurneys, forgotten, dead. Labelled without identity, a part of history. Do I even dare think of the man who is responsible for this history? He is the fifty-first. His consciousness stands alone, awarding a second death to all those he shot with arbitrary hate- You’re not even special in death.
Did he know what that meant? Did he realise the weight of fifty souls on his? And what about the rest? The world staring in a sort of mute horror. too tired to fight, to weary to dismiss.
The same old words in consolatory tweets, crime of terror, crime of hate. Pray for Orlando. Pray.
Pray for the dead, pray for living. Rights, causes, justification. Pray to your God, Even aethists pray, pray for there is nothing left to do. Like a child with a broken toy running to our mothers, this world does nothing but pray.
I hold your hand, and you hold mine, an illusion of Elysium in candlelight.
Who would have thought #PrayForMorePeopleKilledWithoutCause would be a trend?