I am reading an article in Newsweek about some photographers killed in Libya. And I am crying.
Not because I know them, I don’t. Not because I knew of their work, I didn’t. I am crying because they were there. And I didn’t know about it. And they died doing their job, one that most people wouldn’t choose, and yet it was important. I flip through their last photos and I know that this is how war becomes real. To people like me.
I am tragically out of touch with the greater scheme of things. And sometimes my utter lack of connection hits me from out of the blue.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect that I will ever know the names of each and every war correspondent but I had completely lost sight of even this aspect of the world. I know there is a war in Libya. I know people are dying. But it seems so…not part of my world.
I was avoiding the news for years and now, I am reading Newsweek. And each time I pick it up I re-learn something I forgot I knew.
And each time I read an article that blasts through my blissful suburban ignorance, I marvel at just how little I have accomplished. How little I will accomplish.
With this life. This finite number of years I have here.
I haven’t done much with it.
And yet I have.
And it raises so many questions about purpose. And achievement. And reality.