A deep resentment borne of the months and months and months spent in collective acknowledgement of the duty of care toward endless unknown others while the powerful and the venal and the powerfully venal undercut that care at every turn.
A rage that comes from seeing that the things you said would happen, have happened, and will persist because the people who said they wouldn’t, there’s no way, are you sure, are you sure you aren’t ovverreacting, are the same people endlessly rewarded with the benefit of the doubt.
A sadness deepened daily by the tally of the dead and the dying, the bereaved and the berfet, the orphaned and the abandoned, the long hauler and the suddenly gone.
An exhaustion that is the point.
The visceral and very specific dread that rises when it is no longer safe, when the danger is real, and especially so for three young men put into a situation in which there can be no winners and especially not them.
A kind of betrayal, played out daily.
And yet, a perserverance eked out of the defiance of survival and necessity of joy.
If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
—from Thank You by Ross Gay