AMERICA’S FICTION — OR IS IT?
I surveyed the harbor. The water was choppy and dark and roared against the rocky shore. The sea salt stung my cheeks.
What happened to my beautiful country? Men and women fought and poured out their blood for me—for my ideals—for my vision of a great society.
The ground was drenched with the crimson blood of martyrs. Some on the wrong side of history and some on the right. The clay earth burned with the metallic taste of sacrifice.
I looked around to see if anyone on the island could see my tears.
No. They were too absorbed in their own thoughts. They saw the beauty of the city, while I saw the ashes. When you bury your head under man-made bridges and the anesthesia of entertainment—you are blind.
A hand, the size of the earth’s form, reached down from heaven and extended its palm toward me. I climbed into its heart-shaped cup. I needed to know if I’d survive the betrayal. I needed to know my purpose. I needed to know… And from this height, I could see.
My name is America—and I took my blindfold off.