The nature of the European colonizers can be completely summarized in one belief:
That anything they hold sacred touching the ground is offensive.
The notion that making contact with the earth is an affront tells us clearly how they feel about their mother earth.
The way they hoard and slaughter their food shows they feel no sense of brotherhood with the life they share this world with.
They even poison the water as though they have no notion of where that poison may end up, and then they pay a doctor to give them even more poison that they say will make them feel better.
Indeed it is clear that they have turned their backs on their families, believing that they are somehow superior, that they deserve to be safe and secure, insulated from the purifying forces of nature that have kept our family strong and stable.
Long ago our ancestors prayed, and our mother gave us a great gift. She was always willing to share her secrets, but she taught them how to listen. She showed us fire. She taught how to use rocks to carve tools. She gave us medicine. As long as we remained grateful, and remembered where these gifts came from, we lived in balance and remained strong!
But others took these tools and abused them, turned their backs and walked into weakness, and they wonder why they’re so tired and lonely…
We do not wonder at the source of their disease, and we curse them for forever for their insistence on infecting the rest of the world with it.
About chrooth
No this isn't some sort of midlife crisis thing. I'm just adapting. Like anyone else on here, or who does this, I believe I am writer. Unlike most others, I believe I am a writer because I have always written. Long story short, I was a really weird kid and sometimes it just felt like the only place I could turn for some solace and empathy was an empty page. I've always been a melodramatic writer and I've been really happy for a long time so I haven't felt the need to write but when I do... I have to. I basically live on the road, so my journal is hardly ever within reach, and when it is I convince myself that I'm too busy to make any time for it. So here I am, embracing the future, having acquired the journal that will follow me almost anywhere. I'm having one of those, "WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE!?" moments, and GOD after so long I can't tell you how good it feels to just let my mind spill through the tips of my fingers again. I suppose this would be an appropriate time to qualify both my ability and my intentions. I am not a good writer. I am told I have a strong tendency towards run-ons, I over punctuate, and I curse like a sailor. I can't spell for crap and especially while typing, I have a tendency to just leave words out. As I mentioned earlier this "blog" is meant as a replacement for my long treasured journal, which tends to imply a need for privacy. However, if you were to ever read my journal, you would eventually come across an entry musing over the purpose of a journal, wondering why they are written and kept in secret. I have no secrets. I had far too many secrets for far too long and I assure you, I have no more energy for them. Additionally, I can not properly conjure any feeling of being heard by manufacturing an imaginary personality that lives in a book and understands my words. So I write, and have always written, to you.
Thanks for reading it!
Chrooth 