Perhaps when it is my grave you have to cry on, you will then realize the loss of a soul.
I sit. Cigarette in hand, glass of prosecco close enough to reach and I bitch. I bitch because I have the luxury to do so. I don’t take into account what is happening around me. I bitch about things that are close enough to affect me. I bitch about my waistline. I bitch about my drinking. Yet, they are both things I can control.
The madness in my own country, over the shooting of a boy my color- the never-ending conflict in the Middle East, these things I don’t bitch about. Instead, I spend my time bitching about the things I can change. The things that I can’t, I hope someone else not only bitches- but does something about. I’ll grow fat and watch myself slip into an inebriation that is unreasonable. At the same time, as I gorge myself and as I try to satisfy my insatiable thirst, I do hope that no other boy my color is slain and that neither Palestinian nor Israeli blood is spilled. As for now, I will just bitch. Until I have a reason to do otherwise.