Keeping the Gods Happy

Five years have gone by since I came back from living in the US for 7 years. I can't still fathom how is it we, Mexicans, survive under a complete state of vulnerability, how is it we strive and try to dream of a better future in this hostile environment.

 I have friends that refuse to watch or read the local news for mental health reasons. They rather ignore that there are bodies found on car trunks, dismembered or severed bodies appearing mixed with cement in buckets used to block people from parking on some random neighborhood, or a distant setting hinting another femicide. Whether a student or a military nurse, an activist or police agents, there seems to be no satiety to what seems an open bloodshed of individual lives that I can only relate to our barbaric past by our Aztec rulers. Slashing us, on top of pyramids as fallen tributes to keep the Gods happy.

 Some of these people left their homes to work, to laugh and be amongst others, to deal with what life brought them, but what they got back is an impunity that will be deafening to their loved ones. Yet I can't seem to get used to it, nor ignore it. This is not normal. This is not the healthy way to understand life, no matter how colorful Coco seems, death shouldn't be so present in our lives, invite it on sleep overs, see it on every corner, holding a candle on baptizements. When is grotesque ever enough?

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