I write you this evening, wondering if you are thinking what I'm thinking, how this world, sometimes our world, once my world, just seems to be some bad bad news channel that keeps clicking out death. More gone. Senseless. A truck rams through a crowd. 77 dead. At this moment, which will change by the hour, until this night fades into memory before the next night becomes our present.
I write you this evening because I know you too try to find light in all this horror, try not to fall every moment, deeper and deeper. Sadness. Videos replaying events. Shouts. Sobbing. Sounds. But this is not all. It is music that rescues, even if temporary, voices. Rufus Wainwright and harmony, a chorus of Hallelujahs that cut beneath my anger, tears, hope.
Do you try to remember names? Make lists in your head. Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Pulse, Istanbul, Dallas, Nice, and lots in between, forgotten, unnamed, never forgotten.
I write you this evening because I cannot be silent, even though I don't quite know what that means, but I know that no words cannot be an option, in these times that have no name since they are not yet history. They are alive.
And why this evening, and not last evening, or the evening before, or even last week. It could have been then.