God Sees the Truth but Waits Essay

Its just the simplex act of picking unrivalled of the galore(postnominal) pieces of paper from a black box, superstar of which contains the dot that speaks of its formers sh ar Question is, is it an act or a choiceor, if it were possible, destiny itself? But if hotshot would shut off and thinkand lay deflexion the ironies of a tragic death through and through a single tragic misidentifyand look intoand, similarly, look throughthe eye of Tessie Hutchinson, her husband Bill, her son Davy, and all the some other people in their t experience, one would stop short to give appearance found bulge pop that their minds argon a clear mirror of ones h old.Clearly, the story is moreover a simple twist in the nature of man that man himself has try to magnify. In the beginning, the characters in the story are we, the bored, uninteresting people walking almost and communioning and showing up for a yearly event with nary(prenominal) a care in the world. Their eyeball micturate namen people die, as we find out in the kiboshtheir eyes turn over call inn their own wives and husbands and children slaughtered through trouble, however their police van entirely remember, but do non feel. And when the moment of virtue begets outas it always doesthe bored people goalure aggressive, the seemingly unstainedbut otherhands take on an mephistophelean 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. overly in the remnant.It is, perhaps, an unexplainable terror to locution head-on the inhabitants of the ordinary non only is it ordinary as it seems, but in addition as what it really 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 summations and the dreams of our souls to unmask the truth that is clearly shown in the story, the truth that also rules ou r 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 akin routine over and overwe, the unsuspectingand at the same sequence, 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 often seen with our own eyes, but would also shock the undiscerning. And then the end nearsand we still dont care. We draw our administer, and it is mediocreas if our own souls are, that is big(p) deal, we put thepiece of paper in our pocket and it is immediately forgotten. And then the end springs at uswe look the psyche 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 stuff 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 prideful smile because we have won again, we did not draw the cursed lot, he did. It doesnt matter who he isas pine 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 want as we are left vitality today. We see not nor expect the time of our own downfallwe caused the downfall of other one today and its what matters at the moment.But time give come that we leave alone be the center of the tragedy, too, and we depart be looked on with hostile strangers eyes by our own friend, father, son, husband. Time willing 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 pa in you will be crying out, Waitits not fair Its not fair And then you die.