Tell me the end of all things. Tell me why I sit here as bombs explode in God’s ears. What do I benefit from such destruction? What is the justification of such violence? Is the life of many worth the life of one? I can barely keep calm in this chair, amid this war, throughout this chaos. I asked for none of this, we asked for all this.

Is it right that the leader of my nation speak with my voice even if I didn’t give it to him?

What does death truly mean for me? For us?

I sit here, in this chair, in this room, away from the end of the world, the sun shining through a blanket of trees, the birds nestling in the grass. I sit here not sure what to do. What can I do? What can one man do? I fear the wrath of the angels, I fear the judgment of God that so many lives would be bought and sold and destroyed in the name of an insidious currency.
What can one man do? What can one man do lost in a nation more concerned with actors then with the woman who lost her child because of a misguided bomb? What can one man do when the most important issue pressing his people is whether or not their Latte is made right? What can one man do.

God is speaking to me, and he is ashamed of me. He is ashamed of a nation hellbent on piety and self righteousness. God is speaking to us and his voice comes from the depth of the graves of bodies, from the mass of blood that spills into this country and on our hands.

What can one man do?