Jo Cox: A fallen shero

I just found out that the British MP Jo Cox succumbed to her injuries. And this reminds me all too much about the similar fate the Swedish minister for foreign affairs Anna Lindh met. She was stabbed in broad daylight and later succumbed to her injuries. This was during the referendum regarding adopting the Euro.

I was in 7th grade at the time I believe, but her death is seared into my memory. I remember our Swedish teacher bursting into our classroom during a science class and telling us that she died. We were all hoping she’d pull through.

She was the last in a group of truth warriors for lack of a better word. She followed in the steps of Olof Palme who was also assassinated for his fiery revolutionary spirit ; his champion of the revolutionaries of Cuba and Cambodia, his no holds barred criticism of the neo-imperialist agendas of the Western powers, his sweeping reforms of the Swedish constitution that still stand till this day, though they are starting to wither away.

And like Anna Lindh, Jo Cox was a renowned humanitarian and she fought relentlessly for the Syrian refugees and was a resolute idealist who fought for humanity and championed for women.

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Moon

I’ve discovered that I can’t convince someone to not fear my darkness when they haven’t embraced theirs. I’ll retreat to my shadows. You’ll have me when you cross over.

dark cloudss

Do you remember

constellationss
I see everything, even in the dark
I know too much, even if I try dumbing myself down
I carry the burden of every soul that my eyes fall upon
I read people like barcodes
I’m hiding because I can’t take it much longer
I’m looking to heal in exile
I can’t take carrying and never being carried
Understanding and never being understood
Listening but never be truly heard
Noticing but never noticed
If I hide, would someone come looking for me?

If I go out in the dead of the night, looking for stars to count –
How sweet it would be to have a hand to hold
An ear that’d listen to the stories I’d read off the constellations of stars
Someone in whose memory I would live on
Long after I’m gone
Someone to inherit the museum I keep in my heart
Someone who’d build bookshelves for the library I keep in my head

But alas, expectations can kill
and you look like you could murder my heart with a cold smile and shrug

sensitive skin

Brett Abernethy

 

The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this:

A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive.

To him… A touch is a blow,

A sound is a noise,

A misfortune is a tragedy,

A joy is an ecstasy,

A friend is a lover,

A lover is a god,

And failure is death.

Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create… So that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.

 

Pearl S. Buck

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