Did I Come Here for This?

It’s 3 AM, and my brain refuses to sleep—neon lights flicker like restless spirits, shadows whisper secrets I wish I didn’t have to hear. Tonight, the weight of the world feels heavier, pressing down on my chest like a lead blanket. The news came in fragmented whispers: a police call to an unassuming apartment complex, a mother, and her infant child. The baby was shot first.

I can’t wrap my head around it. An old soul choosing to incarnate into this chaos, only to have its light extinguished before it even had a chance to glow. I pace the room, trying to step outside the rage boiling within me, trying to make sense of the senseless. But how do you rationalize the irrational? How do you fix problems woven into the very fabric of our humanity?

I reach for the dab rig and inhale deeply, letting the vapor fill my lungs—a fleeting escape from a reality too harsh to face head-on. The haze doesn’t clear my mind, but it slows the whirlwind of thoughts just enough. As the world blurs at the edges, a question surfaces: Maybe the infant didn’t come here for this. Maybe I did.

The world spins madly on, but we seem stuck in a loop of our own making—a tragic carousel we can’t seem to dismount. We have to do better. This isn’t just another headline to scroll past, another statistic to tally. It’s a wake-up call echoing through the canyons of our collective conscience.

That infant soul didn’t come here for this—we didn’t come here for this. Yet here we are, tangled in a web of our own apathy and disconnection. I want to scream, to shake the world by its shoulders and demand change. But instead, I sit down and write, hoping words can be the spark that ignites the transformation we’ve all been waiting for.

It’s a long shot, but maybe—just maybe—we can start to mend the fractures that divide us. We owe it to ourselves. We owe it to that child. Humanity, it’s time to wake up. Time to be better.

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It’s 3 AM, and my brain refuses to sleep—neon lights flicker like restless spirits, shadows whisper secrets I wish I didn’t have to hear. Tonight, the weight of the world feels heavier, pressing down on my chest like a lead blanket. The news came in fragmented whispers: a police call to an unassuming apartment complex, a mother, and her infant child. The baby was shot first.

I can’t wrap my head around it. An old soul choosing to incarnate into this chaos, only to have its light extinguished before it even had a chance to glow. I pace the room, trying to step outside the rage boiling within me, trying to make sense of the senseless. But how do you rationalize the irrational? How do you fix problems woven into the very fabric of our humanity?

The world spins madly on, but we seem stuck in a loop of our own making—a tragic carousel we can’t seem to dismount. We have to do better. This isn’t just another headline to scroll past, another statistic to tally. It’s a wake-up call echoing through the canyons of our collective conscience.

That infant soul didn’t come here for this—we didn’t come here for this. Yet here we are, tangled in a web of our own apathy and disconnection. I want to scream, to shake the world by its shoulders and demand change. But instead, I sit down and write, hoping words can be the spark that ignites the transformation we’ve all been waiting for.

It’s a long shot, but maybe—just maybe—we can start to mend the fractures that divide us. We owe it to ourselves. We owe it to that child. Humanity, it’s time to wake up. Time to be better.