God Sees the Truth but Waits Essay

Its just the simple act of picking hotshot of the humankindy pieces of paper from a black box, one of which contains the dot that speaks of its drawers serving Question is, is it an act or a choiceor, if it were possible, destiny itself? But if one would stop and thinkand lay aside the ironies of a tragic death through a single tragic mistakeand hold off intoand, similarly, look throughthe look of Tessie Hutchinson, her husband Bill, her son Davy, and all the other people in their t stimulate, one would stop short to abide found off that their minds ar a clear mirror of ones avouch.Clearly, the story is but a simple twist in the nature of man that man himself has tried to magnify. In the beginning, the characters in the story are we, the bored, uninteresting people walking around and talking and showing up for a yearly detail with nary a care in the world. Their eyes have seen people die, as we find out in the endtheir eyes have seen their own wives and husbands and childre n slaughtered through pain, but their hearts only remember, but do not feel. And when the moment of integrity comes outas it always doesthe bored people find aggressive, the seemingly unstainedbut otherwisehands take on an evil stance, the wives and husbands and children turn into something less than a stranger, and the pain and slaughter begins. In the beginning, the characters are we.Also in the end.It is, perhaps, an unexplainable terror to face head-on the inhabitants of the ordinarynot only is it ordinary as it seems, but also as what it very istown and see them as our own flesh and blood, our own savage, twisted selves. But it only takes a little listening to the desires of our hearts and the dreams of our souls to unmask the truth that is clearly shown in the story, the truth that also rules our existence today. They are we. We are they. We are one with themand they are one with us. We walk around and talk and go about our chores and go through the same routine over and ov erwe, the unsuspectingand at the same time, the unsuspiciouswith nary a care in the world.It is a routine that we go through that who could have thought would come out the way it always does, a routine with an end of which we have ofttimes seen with our own eyes, but would also shock the undiscerning. And then the end nearsand we still dont care. We draw our stagger, and it is cleanas if our own souls are, that isbig deal, we pull thepiece of paper in our pocket and it is immediately forgotten. And then the end springs at uswe look the person whos drawn the dotted lotlook him as if our own souls are anything but the piece of paper he has pickedwith strangers eyes.We stone him to death, we forget who he isfriend, family member, father, son, husbandand he dies. We go about our chores again and walk and talk as if our civil hands were clean and leave the slaughtered lamb with a triumphant smile because we have won again, we did not draw the cursed lot, he did. It doesnt matter who he isas retentive as its not we. Our own eyes have beheld the same old scene, but the heart only remembersand doesnt feel. We do not care if it would be we who would die next year, as long as we are left living today. We see not nor expect the time of our own downfallwe caused the downfall of another one today and its what matters at the moment.But time depart come that we will be the center of the tragedy, too, and we will be looked on with hostile strangers eyes by our own friend, father, son, husband. Time will come that it is our own downfall with which they will stain their civil hands with blood. And their heart will not feel, only rememberand you will no longer see yourself in them but in that which you had killed, that which had died in your own savage folly. Amidst the pain you will be crying out, Waitits not fair Its not fair And then you die.