Once on my way home from work, I passed by a stray dog—furless skin and bones, fresh wounds and scabs all over. I quickly turned, it was difficult to look.
What caught my attention was something I couldn’t stand seeing. Yet oddly enough I felt the need to document the instance. As with anything striking, I wanted to commit it to memory, believing I could someday retrieve it to make sense of it, or use it in making sense of the things around it.
Writing is documenting and making sense. Is something as gruesome as a massacre writable? Yes, but only after you get the courage to look at it straight in the face, and long after the fact.
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