On Sunday, September 27th, 3 young children and their grandfather were killed by a drunk driver North of Toronto.
Over the next weeks, months, and even years, they’ll slowly collapse under the weight of endless platitudes. The children looked so peaceful, the grandfather so young. They’ve gone to a better place now, you’ll rejoin them in the inevitable afterlife. They surely died without suffering, succumbing at once to the impact. God called his precious angels back. Le petit jésus les aimait trop.
And for their part they will acquiesce. They will give interviews, forced to recount their horror, to endure as the mass media’s search for the elusive ratings bump uncovers details of ever-increasing poignancy. Where were they going, what were they wearing, what’s the last thing they said. Because what better than the mass extinction of a young family to draw in viewers. The outrage! He was from a rich, well to do family! In this photo, we see him seated comfortably, defiantly, in a Ferrari.
But the fact is these endless platitudes, and even the would-be heir turned mass murderer himself mean nothing. We have nothing to say. We fill the air with noises because it comforts us, not them. I can’t even listen to them because what they have to say scares me. What they represent I can’t even comprehend. Life is fickle, short, unpredictable, and meaningless. The universe owes you nothing. The young are in no way owed the future, afforded the beauty and luxury of time.
And why? Because selfishness reigns. Because we can’t get it through our fucking thick skulls that we aren’t alone on this earth, that our actions affect others. That getting behind the wheel after your last beer, just one more beer, can cause someone to wish they died along with the family you took from them. Something is wrong. But we already knew this. How many times must we be shocked into the realization?
If they stood in front of me today, I would have nothing to say. Nothing.