There is a particular species of grief, gaudy and theatrical, that glistens like water but runs cold to the touch. It belongs to those who howl loudest at injury while sharpening the blade behind the curtain. You will know them by their double tongues.
In the bleachers, they bellow “KILL HIM! KNOCK HIS HEAD OFF!” with the joy of a mob at the gallows, until the helmet cracks or the body lies still. Then, as the crowd falls silent, they clutch their pearls and murmur about the tragedy, their own words conveniently forgotten.
In the pews, they nod devoutly at the sermon of mercy, their lips mouthing scripture while their hearts hitch themselves to men of greed and malice. The cross they bear is ornamental; the faith they follow is an alibi.
They march with signs declaring “SAVE THE CHILDREN,” their voices shaking with indignation for the cameras. Yet, when the lights go out, their hands draw the curtains tight around the guilty, swaddling the wolves in a blanket of silence.
Hypocrisy has its own strange mathematics: it multiplies outrage, divides compassion, and subtracts memory. The beauty of it, for those who practice it, is that no apology is ever required; the performance is the absolution.
We have learned to accept such tears as part of the human pageant — saltwater poured on cue, pooling briefly before evaporating into the heat of the next manufactured cause. And so they go on, weeping without sorrow, their eyes forever wet, their hearts forever dry.
