Undefined

It is undefinable, the conscious knowing that I do not know much beyond a remote absolute nothing really. Thinking about Tripoli. Thinking about Iraq. Thinking about Taiwan. Thinking about Somalia. Thinking about the oppression of entire nations. Thinking about the largeness of genocide and the smallness of genocide. The universal moment of excruciating, unbearable pain inside one small child. Thinking about the solid repression against his innocence, carved into him, a tiny body. That he may be one suffering life over the moon, or decades gone, or just a mile from my own city. I do not know. He remains there, undefined in shadows.

It is undefinable, the thinking about the million complex layers webbed upon our human history where one flashing moment everywhere is changed absolutely by one conscious heart, trying and alive, scattered amongst the billion spread of rising dust and dying stars falling century after century after century. Red blood pumping, trying, living, and dying. Drops of star water. To me, I look to my sky and I see only rain. I feel only water. But I know, it is so much more. Heavens tear open people's anguished skies and pour down rains of so much more. How I can feel water when I know others bear tears of steel and sheets of fire? I know not what to do. I know nothing, not even what I know to write.

It is undefinable, the knowing that a person is suffering my human death, unmine, and living so definitely inside my own cement temple that I do not suffer any pain from unknowing. For most cement moments of my life.

But in these other moments, glass and thinking, paper and feeling, these here, the undefinable ones - it is beyond moral comprehension to know. To know even which one question to ask. It is beyond my trifle science, and limitlessly beyond my single judgment against those in positions who do not decide but who must decide, against those in positions who must defend or who cannot defend, who must defy or who must defect, or even those who must stand up or must lay down and die. I stay still to this chair, aside so far from any such position.

But in this undefinable moment, I find myself yearning, an unbreakable hurt, toward what stands between me and him my one small child, feeling altogether and together, we, helpless against this universe except to write him into prayer: Pray save his heart, that His heavens pour upon him Water of Life, the day's great rains, and to him emerge, undefined between hardened walls of life, into what is eternal - his tiny sacredness, defined, and loved without boundary beyond these shadows.