#neighborliness — Public Fediverse posts on home.social

The Hemorrh Age

We live now
in the Hemorrh Age,

not the age of honest wounds
tended by trembling hands,
not the age of scars
that speak of healing,
but the age of the open vein,
the praised rupture,
the sanctified split.

Everything is torn
and taught to remain torn.

The old ligaments of neighborliness,
frayed.
The sinews of patience,
snapped.
The small capillaries of mercy
burst one by one
beneath the pressure
of opinion, spectacle, grievance, noise.

We are leaking.

Trust runs into the street.
Language pools beneath the door.
Truth is carried away
on a thousand little red channels
no one bothers to close.

And everywhere
the merchants of division
move among us
with clean white gloves,
smiling,
holding their polished instruments,
whispering that this incision
is necessary,
that this cut is clarity,
that this tearing apart
is what it means
to be awake.

They call hemorrhage conviction.
They call hatred discernment.
They call contempt wisdom.
They call cruelty a kind
of courage.

And we, half-dizzy,
half-devout,
watching our common life
soak through the bandages,
mistake the spreading stain
for a flag.

Even the holy things
are not spared.

Altars become platforms.
Prayer becomes signal.
Prophets are drafted
into factions.
The wounds of the world
are trimmed and displayed
for effect.
Compassion is made to perform
beneath bright lights
until it no longer knows
how to touch a body
without first finding a camera.

How strange,
that a people can perish
not by a single blow
but by endless bleeding.
Not by invasion
but by laceration from within.
Not by silence
but by the shriek
of everyone opening
everyone else.

We have become
students of severing.
Apprentices of fracture.
Curators of the unsutured.

Every difference
a knife.
Every slight
a blade returned.
Every memory
reopened.
Every sorrow
milked for more.

No one asks now
how to heal a wound.
Only how to name it,
frame it,
share it,
weaponize it,
keep it wet.

And still—
still somewhere beneath
this failing body,
beneath the fevered rhetoric,
beneath the hot blush
of tribal wrath,
some quiet stubborn tissue
tries to knit.

A hand reaches.
A voice lowers.
A stranger refuses
the sweet narcotic
of contempt.
Someone binds what they did not tear.
Someone stays near
what others abandoned.
Someone chooses
not victory,
but mending.

Perhaps that is how
an age survives itself.

Not by denying blood.
Not by pretending
there was never injury.
But by kneeling at last
beside the opened body
and saying:

Enough.

Let the wound close.
Let the pressure ease.
Let mercy return
to the smallest vessels.
Let the torn muscle remember
its first design.
Let us become again
something more than our bleeding.

For if this is
the Hemorrh Age,
then let there also rise
against it
the tender and stubborn saints
of suturing,

the keepers of bandages,
the washers of torn flesh,
the enemies of spectacle,
the last believers
that a body
still can heal.

#civicDecay #collectiveTrauma #commonGood #cultureOfContempt #division #HemorrhAge #mediaManipulation #mending #Mercy #neighborliness #outrageCulture #peaceWitness #Poetry #polarization #politicalSpectacle #propheticArt #publicDiscourse #Reconciliation #SocialFragmentation #socialHealing #SpiritualReflection #Tribalism #woundedSociety