The subjective nature of history, the stories written and shared for future generations, who decides what is told, and the manner in which the events occurred?
Hearing “Imagine those poor guys over there. Every five minutes a psycho with a machine gun says, ‘Let’s kill ’em now,’ and someone else says, ‘No, let’s wait a while.’ How long could you stand that?”
Black September was never told to me.
Is this to keep certain preconceived notions about the country I live in, my government, even my very nature intact?
What is truth, honor, respect anyway but ones perceptions of their own surroundings.
The more I learn, the more my reality is cracked, a fractured line on my skull, penetrating me.
I see only to follow my own thoughts, and to trust myself, as that is the only certainty I have.
