Everyone likes to save their own hide. Everyone takes their own precautions.
Even if it means ignoring the fact that someone has died because of someone else's negligence.
We want to be safe. We don't want to offend.
We want to paint pretty pictures to cover up the reality.
I understand that feeling; I often ignore the reality and live in my own bubble, because I prefer it that way. Life is infinitely more easier to go through if you're wearing rose-tinted glasses.
But the feeling extends only to what I find unpalatable, and is a personal choice.
A girl, younger than me, has died. Because she wanted to go out and have a good time. It went wrong.
What happens then?
I crack my knuckles, put up my feet, and proceed to write about the place of her death. How many such places exist, what is present there. Not more than that.
A puff piece.
What am I going to say, when my heart is not in it?
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