The Human Compassion The human compassion breathes. It exists with its own capabilities, yet fractured by the strike of pride. It hits the ground and trembles the air, knocking kindness unconscious, but keeping our ego wide awake. The human compassion is wrapped in a plaster of white rules and norms, then rested in a cast of superiority. The human compassion is handicapped because it cannot fulfil its very purpose, or function the way it is designed to. The human compassion perhaps, dies. A death with no funeral nor decay, the kind of death that’s not spoken of because they never returned home.
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