Blood by Tifa

As long as everything is neat and tidy, there’s little reason for anyone to be too concerned about the life of another. Do you really care? About the young mother you pass heading in to the grocery store, who still took the time to try to hold the door open for you, even though she was juggling a toddler and a bag of fruit? Or the old man sitting on the park bench who smiled at you when you walked by? How about your cousin, the one you really don’t have much in common with but familial ties, who you haven’t spoken to in seven or eight months? When everything is circulating properly, reporters, police officers, analysts and investigators circulate within their own spheres. Once that sweet, sticky, red, metallic-smelling substance becomes smeared and slashed and unkempt, a swarm arrives. You will get sucked in, you can’t help put get sucked in. Life has spilled out, so a life must be reassembled. It simply will not do to let it splatter and spray and dry. It is not orderly or attractive.

Everything is picked apart. Everything is dissected. If you can’t keep your life orderly and it spills out onto the carpet or the sidewalk or the ground, they will come and methodically recreate your life until the pieces make sense again and order can be restored. They will make sense of the chaos because someone must and suddenly you, too, will find you have something to say about the young mother or the man or the cousin. Because you have to, because you must, because how could they let that sweet essence out like that? You work so hard to keep your own blood in, like maybe if you can reflect enough on their own misfortune, you could dodge a similar fate. But it all comes out, eventually.

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