Yesterday I learned something horrible about someone in my family. They did something. Something I always swore to myself, to be one of those things, I’d never forgive. I am afraid of the consequences of my own thoughts. Yesterday I stood over their grave and I cried and I told the hole in the ground, that I don’t believe in heaven, but for their sake I wished I was wrong. I don’t wish that anymore. This appears cruel to me. But it is not. It is rational, it’s the logical conclusion to what I promised myself.
And I don’t want to be ashamed of having principles. But then again, I am not really ashamed of being consequent. I am ashamed of being not. Because they might have done, what they did, but there are people in my family, who knew. People I love, people him cover it up. Instead of giving the victim what they deserve, give the world security of it never happening again. I can hate the dead with all the consequence in the world, and it won’t mean nothing if I am afraid to confront the living. They still have the chance to explain themselves, and I would like to grant it to them. But I couldn’t look them in the eye, as I bring it up. And I am afraid that I might not be able to look them in the eye, no matter what they say in response.
This is my shame. To be relieved that the sinner is buried, although the sins are still in the world. Others still have to carry them. While those who should are either dead, or just as relieved as I am.
This is my shame and it turns my stomach.