I heard a most wonderful quote today, my friends.
"A man is truly ethical only when he obeys the compulsion
to help all life he is able to assist,
and shrinks from injuring anything that lives." - Albert Schweitzer
This man knew Blue. I'm sure that people have other names for it, perhaps Karma, maybe even the Force, and yet this belief is so rarely practiced. I couldn't stop smiling when I came across this quote, I found myself elicit, and wishing I had the rare honor to have met the man. I've got much, much more to do before I feel as a successor to the philosopher, but I do feel that he would be a kindred spirit. How I could have learned from him!
I've made it a point recently to expand my influence on the world about me. Specifically, my neighborhood is the task at which I've charged myself. If I am going to make a difference in anything, it is here that I must start. Fate has no hold on me, I will not be stopped by such things. I cannot, I have much to joy and love to share with my world.
I've started spending some time watching the playground at the park. There's not always adults supervising the wondrous and imaginative children out there, and I do not trust in their safety with the creature about. I have felt the need to keep close watch, to ensure no ill befalls them. I have seen no interest, but it is a feeling I simply cannot shake.
I wandered through darkness and mazes, in a stupor, ever a puppet in another person's grand design. Confusion filled me, even to the point of loss of self, of identity. I reached out for names, for purpose, and found nought. I remembered a glimpse of the past, of being with my Uncle in a car. We were fighting zombies somewhere, and sought refuge in a medical complex. I was given the grim task of putting him out of his misery after he was injured, and did so without ado. I could only save who he was, not who he would be, and I did not regret it. There were others, perhaps doctors and nurses, I know not, that were fighting to survive as well. I fled to a bathroom, my shotgun aimed and readied at the door for whatever may give chase.
When the door did open, I hesitated. The faces of these figures were all too human, though their forms were quite decayed. I did not know these two men, but I knew their features well enough to place them as being Hispanic. They stumbled forward as I could not fire. The shamble grew more desperate as I tried to defend myself finally, producing no discharge even as I squeezed the triggers. I was helpless, and so I died.
Is it right or wrong to kill in the name of Blue? If one was certainly a cancer upon the world, is it best to be rid of it, to slay the problem, or must one find an alternative? All things are related, does this mean that his problems are mine? Is a murderer merely the reflection of my own issues, exaggerated and personified? If I showed him unconditional love, would he feel it, or would he shuffle me from this mortal coil?
Such questions have no easy answer,
even for I
Call Me, Nil.