There Went My Heart

I was supposed to go to Africa this June. Two months from now. But the truth is that we gave up because the cost is around $3000. The idea is to go there and make a documentary of sorts that focuses on good instead of bad. Not all good, like rainbows and sunshine. But good like Africans are capable of sustainability and economic growth and all the other answers to the question of “Why should I give a fuck about Africa?”

I still don’t know the answer to the question. But I doubt the answer was ever the point, if you have to ask the question in the first place. Right? But I’ve been wrestling with the meaningless of life as of late. And I wonder, what does it matter if a million people in Darfur are violently ripped from this Earth? Doesn’t it save them from dying of diarrhea or some equally curable and laughable affliction? Doesn’t it also give us one less thing to care about? One less place to throw money, a million less people eating our food, using up our planet?

I know this is hard to think about. I don’t want to think about it. But they are the questions that those in power ask every day. And the best answer they come up with is “It makes us look bad” and so they give speeches and quell the rumbles of their conscience, and people continue to die.

And here I am, preaching about the cares I spend .2% of my time considering. I don’t write this to guilt you. I write it to guilt me, because I’m the pessimist now, and I’m angry about it. Because I can’t answer those questions, and I’m afraid of the answers I consider.

It’s good to be back. I should seek before I speak again. I should try before I complain. I should live I love you instead of saying it.