see tears that flow like rivers from the skies

So, if you know me well, you will probably know that I struggle dealing with emotion from time to time.
not in the ‘breakdown every five seconds’ way.
actually quite the opposite.
I find crying really difficult.
not because my tear ducts are pooed , but because I find it so embarrassing that I almost never do it.
when I have a bad day at school, or I miss my folks, or I have a fight with someone; I don’t cry.
because in fact, I can’t cry.
the only exception of this, I have noted, is extreme grief.
when my dog died, I cried more than I had in an entire year.
when I was leaving my old school, I sat up on a hill with Emily at her house, completely hysterical.
so I have just accustomed my life to fit around this.
anyway, we are doing an assignment in history at the moment where we become journalists for an Arab newspaper… reporting on events from the Arab-Israeli war, interviewing several characters.
and progressively as I researched throughout the day I became significantly more and more overwhelmed by the things I found.
particularly parts about terrorism.
and it wasn’t just the war that began getting to me.
in this year, as you will have noticed, I have become increasingly more passionate about children’s rights and their right for a fair life without abuse, slavery or violence.
so working on the make poverty history project has began to open my eyes to reality.
reality is that 24,000 children died today due to preventable causes.
many of these children, have been slowly suffering.
every 26 seconds a child is forced into slavery, whether it be the sex industry or working to produce clothes and food that we import into Australia for cheap costs.
we exploit our own race, so we can be happy.
and yeah, for so long, I was comfortable with these concepts, thinking ‘hey, this happens, but that’s the way the world works, and the world is fucked. We’re all going to die, etcetera, etcetera.’
I was so negative about the world and about change that these days, I wonder how I even knew myself, and accepted the person I was.
anyways, so back to the research. I suppose it is fair to say that my emotion had built up for a number of months now, but there was a photo I found. And I will never forget my reaction; because shortly after I saw it, I clasped my hand to my mouth; stunned.
children, playing on a car, with real guns.

I then proceeded to shed a tear. Yeah I know.
within several minutes I was hysterical. Photo after photo after photo.
crying as I looked at each photo, until I was silently just sobbing to myself.
The next day, I couldn’t quite pin down my emotion.
I figured I was just hormonal (you know how it is) and I would move on.
But there was a dull aching inside of me, ever since that night, that I can’t seem to shake.
and as I realised today on the bus; it is grief that I felt that night. I was grieving.
But sadly, I don’t think it was because of the children who die each day, or whom are born into war.
it’s because up until recent years I really didn’t give a shit.
I cared, but there is a difference between caring, and becoming passionate about something.
and it isn’t a shameful grief, but more of a ‘why haven’t I done anything’ grief.
and I don’t mean this blog to be self righteous, or another blab about social justice;
but I really just wanted to stress how much I grieve over my own negativity in the past.
It is odd, because we usually grieve death.
The parts of ourselves that died… or we lost.
See, I grieve that part of catelyn that never existed.




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