I am honored to post a short piece written by my brother (alias — Dragonstrand) in regards to the recent massacre in Newtown. He offers a different perspective (I am not surprised), from my own and the other two posts I re-blogged on the topic…we tend to look for the big picture explanation…using the horrific event as a condemnation of the society or culture as a whole…whereas he…my brother…Dragonstrand…looks to the individual that committed the heinous and cowardly act.
Although my written word, and his written word (Dragonstrand), is often philosophical and logical…perhaps cold and calm and sometimes harsh…I weep at what occurred in Newtown…and I know he does as well. My brother is a true philosopher and artist…his word matches his actions in life…his words are songs…that ring out through eternity. I also post a video at the end of his short piece. I went to my nine-year old’s school choir tonight…these kids…about 20 of them…range in age from 5 to 9. May our young people continue to sing…through eternity…
As a boy I heard stories of men who drowned because they put women and children upon lifeboats ahead of themselves. Today, as a man, I hear very different tales. It seems, young “man”, that you got it all backwards in your mixed up mind—for from the leaky, sinking, one-oared rowboat of your life, you loaded women and children first upon an untimely deathship. You could have just let yourself go down in the miserable murk of your madness, but no, that would not have been fair to your exaggerated sense of umbrage. You had to take defenseless innocents down with you as retribution for your awkward inability to learn how to swim. I wonder why, though, you ended it so prematurely; why your vaunted massacre, just like your manhood, was a miscarriage. Was it really the sound of the first siren, the advent of those same men I once heard stories about, that cowardly caused you to remove the life vest from your scrawny neck? Or was it the sea of blood spilling out of the bullet holes you put in the tiny bodies of children huddled together in the now lifeless arms of their shielding, mother-like teachers? Did you flail in this scarlet flood too? Did you not derive the sense of exultation you had anticipated in your fantasies? Did it not play out like the virtual games you had played in your mind where at last you were the unstoppable, ravaging shark in a pond of downy ducklings? Why else would you so suddenly stop, when you still had plenty of teeth left, unless it was because you didn’t have the stomach to finish what you started? In the end you didn’t even have the guts for your gutless act. You choked on the blood, sank down to your knees, and seeing the same old reflection in the puddles of that wide-eyed fish out of water gulping in vain upon the air, you drowned.