as i sit here on this sunday evening, reading my book nestled into soft brown couch with big warm blanket, war is happening.
so many with bullet wounds, bare stomachs and steel bars as their only windows.
so many fighting for their last breath, first meal and second chance.
so many with so many others yelling, pleading, whispering “freedom.”
this comfort is ugly.
it arrives with a pool of red sweat and carcass.
it arrives because this land is its graveyard.
it arrives because we crave it too much to stop it.
our comfort has become our only privilege and it has become dangerous.
dangerous enough that we will cry, die, slave for it rather than for our freedom.
dangerous enough to keep us chained to our tv, to our desks, to this couch rather than to the streets, to the struggle, to our people.
dangerous enough to kill us.
and tonight, unlike most nights, i smell death in the comfort of my own home.