"This Is Not Normal."

Over time, though, that river became a gulf. It happened slowly at first, almost in ways you couldn’t quite notice. You watched as the cracks that began to form started to creep into their village. A village divided. A new normal. Some of the villagers challenged it, but others welcomed the division. Eventually, the gulf became too wide, and the river became too chaotic; it threatened to engulf anything that got too close.

Your house faces that river, and every day you could peer through your window and see it in the distance. It was hard to get the full sense of it at a glance, but your own memories of the people there kept you grounded. No matter how wide that river got, or how divided the village became, the village stood strong… for better or for worse.

Even beyond the window, the village made itself obvious. Mirrors in your house would reflect glimpses of it. People around you would always talk about it, gossiping about the goings on. It was hard to escape, but you never felt like you had to escape. For better or for worse, the village was always there.

One morning, the breeze brought the smell of smoke. Through your window, across the raging river, were flames. In the early morning light, its glow could be seen far and wide. You emerged into the crisp air, and suddenly, the village that is always there seems ephemeral.

Your thoughts fill with the people there, but you are frozen in place; the river roils and rages ahead of you, denying you agency. You see a small group emerge from the village, shadowy figures backlit by the blaze behind them. They hold up torches, but to you, they are not a signal for help. They are a promise that this fire will consume you, too, if the river gives them the chance.

You shuffle back into your house and sit at your desk, the one in front of the window that faces the familiar village. Suddenly, that leaky faucet doesn’t seem important; that unanswered letter that sits in front of you seems… silly. There is so much happening in front of you, and all you can do is hope that the breeze doesn’t carry the embers too far.

This blaze that consumes and twists all it touches is not normal. The torchbearers are not normal. The river raging against its own shores is not normal.

This is not normal, and it doesn’t have to stay this way. But at your desk, alone, with the glow in the distance and the shore eroding ever closer, it can be easy to feel powerless. This is how they need you to feel.

This is not normal, and I hope there is some comfort in knowing that.