I am following this story as if someone I know is involved. It combines so many personally terrifying ideas all I can do is sit and hope for a happy ending. I was at the gym earlier, reading along with CNN on the TV. I kept thinking of how horrible it must be for the family members, the free miners (survivor’s guilt), and the men 247 feet underground. I can’t
hom what they’re going through and I truly want to take it away from them.
I wonder about their thoughts. I wonder (if they are still alive) is there any laughter? Does the human mind allow for bits of relief by way of hope while they’re down there waiting? (Waiting).
What does one think about? What could possibly go through someone’s head 247 feet underground, submerged in water, in the dark? I can’t imagine. (Someone do something).
I want to sell bottles of liquid fear and terror. Small bitty bottles of whatever emotion these men are feeling as they wait for us to get to them. Like Snapple, instead of many flavors let’s make different varying degrees of terror and hand them out. And on the days where we think life is bad, that the traffic is bad, that our debt is too high, or that people owe us something because we’re not so responsible, we’ll have a sip or two and understand what it really feels like to hurt.
I used to quote Bukowski (because I’m a total loser) when I was annoyed with how people (and myself) handled life
The problem with these people is that their cities have never been bombed and their mothers have never been told to shut up.
Half of that statement happened this past year and still we’re wandering around like a bunch of irresponsible, self-righteous bastards. Give me the phone, get me the home phone number for all the greedy baseball players, Karyn, the
guy suing the the fast food industry, the asshole in the car on the hightway who drives down the sholder, the person at work who won’t stop gossiping, I want to tell their moms to
shut the fuck up.
Because nothing seems to be changing.