Clueless Ink

I don’t know why, but I want to run.

Run from the horrors of Palestine, Jallianwala Bagh,

The containment camps of Germany, Kashmir, Gujarat, the Twin Towers,

From history’s endless cycle of merciless killing.

Maybe it’s because I’m lucky.

Lucky enough to pretend it’s not real.

Because denial is the best medicine,

As long as it doesn’t destroy you.

I sip my overpriced coffee while reading about another massacre.

I scroll past another war, another headline, another horror,

And then I go back to my to-do list.

I want to help, but how?

Charity? Awareness? Belief?

What’s right? What actually changes anything?

The world is carved into pain, revenge, survival, and power.

The oppressed move forward because they have no choice.

The oppressors build futures that aren’t theirs to claim.

And the rest of us?

We just live; grateful that, for now, it isn’t us.

It isn’t us.

We are not the oppressed. We are not the oppressors.

So, we build businesses. Work.

Mint money. Travel, maybe.

“What’s your salary?” Damn, missed that promotion.

Let’s just fuck for god’s sake.

Because it isn’t us.

Cheers to that?

I call myself an idealist, but if you look closer,

I’m just another opportunist.

Maybe someday, it will be us.

And someone else will raise a glass,

To their own denial.