The last time it happened I didn't understand. I was sitting in the place I call home, a place that I love, a place full of people I love and love me. I could not understand the level of loneliness and brokenness that must have been. The best way to describe the way I felt is confused. Completely, totally confused. No matter how greatly I tried to understand, I could not. This time is no different. I do not understand, not one bit. Yet to try and understand would be to try and step into a pair of shoes which I have no business trying to stand in. I do not understand, nor should I.
In situations like these I find myself trying to rationalize or justify or explain what just happened. I try to spin it such that I can say to myself and others "don't worry, everything will be okay", even if that simply isn't the case. The thing is, things like this aren't supposed to happen where I come from, to the people I grew up with. It's like being hit by a train when you didn't even know there were tracks nearby. It's shocking and jarring and confusing all at the same time, a crazy mix of emotions that doesn't add up to anything.
All that being said, one thing must be repeated and repeated and repeated: there is always hope. I'll say it again. There is always hope. Always. These are words I first saw written on a wall by a man some would call a vandal. He might better be described as a poet or prophet.
You see, even when I am up to my knees in muck and mire, when I am feeling swallowed by the pain and suffering that surrounds me, there is still hope. There is hope that tomorrow will be better. Hope that some good might be waiting at the end of the road. Hope that I will find my path and that you will find yours. Some might say that hope is a delusion, but I disagree. Hope allows me to press forward when logic and reason tells me to curl up in a ball and hide. And that might be more valuable than anything.
And so on...