I am a writer, and as such, one would expect me to be able to articulate today (today, as in the anniversary of my expulsion from womb; today, as in the aura of our era) -- one expects some fulfillment of my duty as Artist, for me to penetrate the collective psyche with the language it needs (deserves).
But I refuse to be so audacious.
What I can do as a young writer, as an admirer of the better men who have done for me what I hope to someday do for you, is to remember how today -- like the day of the Boston bombings, like the days Christopher Dorner roamed the streets of the Inland Empire, like the day an English major killed thirty-two people in my state, like the three weeks in a gusty October during which a 17-year-old helped a 37-year-old kill ten people while elementary schools like mine refused to allow their children outside for more than ten minutes a day, like the day my mother turned 37 and planes fell out of the sky, like the day two high school seniors yelled, "One! Two! Three!" before blowing their brains out but after blowing thirteen other people's brains out, like the incessant array of horrors that haunt us daily -- how it all made me.
So when the day comes that I am capable of translating those moments into language, I'll be ready to serve the only justice I have to offer.