PERCHÉ

Everything around seemed to exhale and started asking questions. One after another, without commas, without pauses. Why is loyalty now a luxury? Why is it easier to wage war than to heal? Why do people live as if they are apologising for simply existing? The world is spinning, rumbling, selling its conscience wholesale, and the only response is a quiet "why." It was as if someone were standing at the edge of the night and throwing these questions into the sky, not for an answer, but to keep from falling silent. The rhythm beat like a pulse before confession, the voice tired but stubbornly alive. It wasn't despair he felt, but determination: if everything doesn't change, then he would have to change himself. And suddenly something soft flashed in the darkness, the thought that the light wasn't outside. He hides in the very fear, in the very darkness that people run from. And perhaps that's the answer to all the "whys."