Heartbreak in the City of Love

Words cannot explain the worst of what has happened. The world mourns over those who consumed their last breath and over the innocent that we couldn't save. Some could argue that the real tragedy is with those who lost someone, rather than with those who died because they are left here to live and cope with the absence of their dead loved ones. We were left with an open wound and simply haven't had the strength to pull everything back together and start healing. There has been too much time to react and not enough to save ourselves as we stand in shock at the knife left in the heart of France. As sentences flow through the mouth of madness, the words of love are left untouched, and the only thing left for us to offer is a shoulder to cry on. 

The air is cold and bitter, and forgiveness seems unthinkable. We could obsess about the anguish, the wrongdoing, the tragedy; but the only thing left that I can think about is hope--if hope is even an option-- because, as Victor Hugo once wrote in Les Miserables, even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.