The Jordanian
I will tell you what it meant.
He was a good man. He tried to live modestly, tried to avoid unscrupulous temptations.
He tried not to judge and he tried not to fuck.
At first he followed Allah, but after a chance encounter in school, he found himself inexplicably drawn to Nichiren's austere simplicity.
He found purpose in service, in giving himself to his country. And though it was against his nature and beliefs to practice violence, he would have done so without hesitation if he was called upon. Because that's the sort of man he was.
So when he lay gasping for breath amidst the nitid embers that fateful August morning, he wondered what it might have all been for. They always do. And I will tell you: it was all for nothing.
Listen: there were no flashbacks, no revelations. Just an immense burst, the entire world instantly igniting. Daylight became darkness and then reality itself split apart for a nothingth of a second.
And then the sensation of his surroundings slowly coalescing, different than they were before. The tin warehouse was ripped open. The sun filtered though acrid smoke. The taste of burning paint nestled with salty blood in the back of his mouth. He was vaguely aware of the ragged steel shaft fully penetrating his shattered ribcage.
His breath came in wet, guttural wheezes. His throat spasmotically gurgled with sanguine bile. His scorched shirt was saturated with blood.
His Gohonzon -- vaporized in the blast.
There was no peaceful sensation as he expired, no magnetic light, no preparation for death's deep chasm. Only confusion and shock.
...
He was just a simple creature killed by other simple creatures. The perpetrators never knew about the good man whose life was snuffed that day. If they had, they wouldn't have been sorry.
His family and friends mourned. Their cheeks burned with tears. The government thanked them for his sacrifice and dutifully mailed them compensation checks. But none of it meant anything.
Perhaps if he had lived more unscrupulously it might have meant something. Perhaps he could have discovered that it's all just monkeys with mortars on the other side of the fence and there's no deeper meaning to be had -- only smoke and confusion.
His death signifies nothing at all. In fact, no further sentences will be wasted on him.
...
The startled, intoxicated drivers who perish amidst tangled metal and the thick scent of airbag gas in the night air. The diseased beggars covered in filth, expiring among forgotten alleys. The convicted Mara Salvatruchas ruthlessly beaten in Guatemala's notorious El Hoyon. The hundreds of Greek passengers harvested in a single stroke, their plane smashed into a mountain face. The nameless Ecuadorians who drowned on that boat, cries silenced by the waves. The girl in Kansas fatally mauled by a seven-year-old tiger while posing for a photo. The cancer victims everywhere, succumbing in the world's ICUs. The addicts who've injected their last. The thin soldiers dying in dust-choked streets, clawing madly at the ground, screeching...
It has been deemed. They all perish tonight. You can cry, laugh or yawn. I have nothing more to say.
I am listening to: The Stooges - Fun House
And I am feeling: Peppy.
He was a good man. He tried to live modestly, tried to avoid unscrupulous temptations.
He tried not to judge and he tried not to fuck.
At first he followed Allah, but after a chance encounter in school, he found himself inexplicably drawn to Nichiren's austere simplicity.
He found purpose in service, in giving himself to his country. And though it was against his nature and beliefs to practice violence, he would have done so without hesitation if he was called upon. Because that's the sort of man he was.
So when he lay gasping for breath amidst the nitid embers that fateful August morning, he wondered what it might have all been for. They always do. And I will tell you: it was all for nothing.
Listen: there were no flashbacks, no revelations. Just an immense burst, the entire world instantly igniting. Daylight became darkness and then reality itself split apart for a nothingth of a second.
And then the sensation of his surroundings slowly coalescing, different than they were before. The tin warehouse was ripped open. The sun filtered though acrid smoke. The taste of burning paint nestled with salty blood in the back of his mouth. He was vaguely aware of the ragged steel shaft fully penetrating his shattered ribcage.
His breath came in wet, guttural wheezes. His throat spasmotically gurgled with sanguine bile. His scorched shirt was saturated with blood.
His Gohonzon -- vaporized in the blast.
There was no peaceful sensation as he expired, no magnetic light, no preparation for death's deep chasm. Only confusion and shock.
...
He was just a simple creature killed by other simple creatures. The perpetrators never knew about the good man whose life was snuffed that day. If they had, they wouldn't have been sorry.
His family and friends mourned. Their cheeks burned with tears. The government thanked them for his sacrifice and dutifully mailed them compensation checks. But none of it meant anything.
Perhaps if he had lived more unscrupulously it might have meant something. Perhaps he could have discovered that it's all just monkeys with mortars on the other side of the fence and there's no deeper meaning to be had -- only smoke and confusion.
His death signifies nothing at all. In fact, no further sentences will be wasted on him.
...
The startled, intoxicated drivers who perish amidst tangled metal and the thick scent of airbag gas in the night air. The diseased beggars covered in filth, expiring among forgotten alleys. The convicted Mara Salvatruchas ruthlessly beaten in Guatemala's notorious El Hoyon. The hundreds of Greek passengers harvested in a single stroke, their plane smashed into a mountain face. The nameless Ecuadorians who drowned on that boat, cries silenced by the waves. The girl in Kansas fatally mauled by a seven-year-old tiger while posing for a photo. The cancer victims everywhere, succumbing in the world's ICUs. The addicts who've injected their last. The thin soldiers dying in dust-choked streets, clawing madly at the ground, screeching...
It has been deemed. They all perish tonight. You can cry, laugh or yawn. I have nothing more to say.
I am listening to: The Stooges - Fun House
And I am feeling: Peppy.
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 11:04 PM
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