human beings, as a general rule, have bones. those bones tend to get lost over time,
but time spirals and feigns mercy so often that we may be confused. yet these remains -
well, they remain. they stay, locked in the earth or crushed into some silly semblance
of ash that we believe was burnt, but we haven't seen what burning does to real bones.
real bones crackle and crick and tap their way through infinity until people look away
and then they disappear in a haze of smoke so we don't have to look at them any more,
but people look for them so they know what just happened really just happened. they end up
asking themselves so much, did they do the right thing, was that man innocent, did the
devil end up possessing them, but in the end they don't really think, they just flop around
like goldfish that have been given five seconds to live and no brains to speak of, and
their final decision is that they couldn't have done anything else. they ought to be
ashamed of themselves. they stop looking for the bones and settle with the charred wood
to say they did the right thing, that grey didn't exist when everything was black and white
and sepia brown burned everything to the core with its air of mystery, and the past was
so much simpler that we shouldn't worry, but the lady was a witch and she needed to be burned
because otherwise people might have come in contact with her dangerous things called ideas.
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A/N: Inspired by The Book Thief. Not my best, but I'm tempted to get some kind of review on it.
