Sympathy is beautiful but so odd to me. Upon hearing of the death of a woman I am not sure I ever even met I cried. Why? Because I know her children. Thinking of these kind young men that I have had the pleasure of knowing the greater part of my life, thinking of their pain as they were told the unexpected news, shivered my bones and pinched my heart.
I know and have accepted death as a part of life, but I find my ability to sympathize waxes and wane, varying event from event. This inconsistency is possibly due to the fact that I have never suffered a devastating loss, being instead the spectator of other's pain. Perhaps it is the nature of the hardship that hurts me so. I am always shattered by the truly tragic occurrences: the ones that belong on the pages of a Shakespearean tale.
As I feel this pain and compassion, I am fascinated by my own ability and by its evolution and by humanity.
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