Execution Teardrop

I did shed a tear for somebody who got executed in the States. It was several years ago now, but I only just found out. I wouldn’t have cried if I hadn’t known he was targeted. Once you find out they have been targeted, and their crimes were a direct response, it makes the whole affair extremely sad.

I think he shot four people he knew in his house. Why would anyone do something like that? At the time I believe they were talking about him. He went on record stating something about a secret machine reading his thoughts. That’ll do it for me, this man’s a target Your Honour. You’d think it would get you some sympathy and compassion, wouldn’t you? Some understanding. Nah. All it gets us is a diagnosis, treatable by medication, to make our word and testimony invalid, because nobody believes us, because we are nutjobs. I know how it works.

I’ve been thinking about the possibilities of my own targeting edging me into a deadlock of bloodshed, like so many others, and I’ve been praying for a headful of sensibilities which are slow to wrath. I’ve just discovered joy and peace, even with all the technological hounding, so why oh why would I swap it all just to see one or two guilty persons took out of the game? A wise man wouldn’t trade that of for anything.

No one agrees with me, by the way, about my joy and my peace. They all deny it. They spend all day winding me up, pressing various psychological buttons, and when I think about a little tiny reaction, they jump up and down like lottery winners, claiming I’ve lost my peace. One milli-moment of frustration, and it’s oh there goes his joy. My harassers, after many years of hard work (as they call it, ruining lives), have done nothing but embellish in their target a spirit full of peace and joy. Not hanging off a bridge, but peace and joy. Let’s have a lol minute.

I’m so buzzing. I’m learning about narcissism, to work out who I’m dealing with. I feel so anciently intelligent around them, as if they are all children. It’s true, in a way, they are so immature and silly. They set out to destroy my life. Because I fight back it’s suddenly a war to them, as if my spiritual fortitude makes them soldiers. It wasn’t a war a while ago when you were trampling over mamma’s little boy in big lead wellies, but now, just because he’s on his feet and manning up for the glory of God, you feel inclined to call it a war, just to grant yourselves some merit of valour.

I’m the warrior here. Not a cowardly bunch of voyeurs. Just to get it understood. And to the execution guy who I cried about, well, I send you a kiss over the horizon as well.