May I wander?

During the fairly distant centennially measured pasts, the difference really is that destruction and cruelty in the areas beyond one’s daily travels were simply unknown.  Oh, decades beyond incidents, perhaps, minstrels would pass through one’s moments of life with fictionalized escapades that mimicked likely happenings afar, but they rarely seemed more vivid than the concert of performance in the moment and perhaps a few harrowing dreams peppered with those instances upon a temporary stage, dissipating over a few months’ passing.

In the now, there is a knowing, an instantaneous and unavoidable reality of vivid realization imbedded more deeply than any portrayal glossing over gore.  Constancy of unavoidable realizations that the non-fiction supersedes fairy tales in the longevity and intensity of nightmares because it becomes the day’s, every day’s, instagram of simplistic certainty.

If one were to wonder what unfathomable reaches exist within human cruelty and emptiness of empathy, in what was quaintly described as the dark ages, it would take years of scholarly and sometimes abstinent decades of concentration within an educational isolation of unique and rare opportunity to acquire the comprehension of depth possible from souls set upon the earth.   Even then, through a myriad of mentors and subsequent debates and philosophizing would one age to perhaps become vaguely enlightened on the edges of human potential, both of achievement and degradation of other wanderers of the earth.

But now, it’s just another of multiple moments within every day’s dawning that we broadcast to one and another our garrison of slicing sociopathic constancy.  Unavoidable to even the eyes too blurry and the ears too deafened by muffled screams do we view our neighbors mirroring too often semblances of ourselves.

Tired we’ve so grown of hearing of the basest among us becoming celebrities of chaos that if a tiny handheld screen of an unbalanced hamster upon a piano can save us from reality that we gratefully disengage and sigh with blinders upon any hint of our peripheral vision.

There is no whip of a starred X flag whispering of sins past proudly marched along streets; no echo of gunshot off the badge of a blue uniform piercing an eardrum; no slices through spinal cords beneath a bowed head spraying red across the horizon; no exit of relief as the singing vagabonds dismantle their passion play to move on with the season’s change to share new exaggerated sleeping plot lines to the next town’s innocents of mere hints of transplanted memories from hostiles long ago.