In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.

--Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)

Life is no longer loved.

We know the stories.

He's the dork in class. The one with no friends, no family, no fear. We make fun of him because he's always there. He'll never stand up for himself. He believes our lies.

His life is one step short of hell. He listens to our taunts, our jokes, our rage and begins to conform to the image we have created for him. He begins to want to die.

So one day, after failing another test he could have passed, he locks himself in his bedroom with a glass of water and a bottle of pills. Methodically, he begins to swallow.

We forgot his face after two weeks and his name after two more. Who cared about the loser who killed himself?

It wasn't as if he would have played a part in society. It wasn't as if his dreams mattered to us.

His death, we said, was not our fault.

Life is no longer respected.

We know the stories.

The music was loud, the beer was flowing and the sex was everywhere. More drinks were needed. We, drunk ourselves, volunteered to go. Five people crowded into the car. We left with spirits high.

We didn't see the car. We didn't react in time. We didn't realize they were so close.

We heard the screams.

They were high school seniors on their first date with each other. They had seen a late movie and were looking forward to a bright future. The guy was salutatorian of his class and quarterback for the football team. The girl volunteered at the homeless shelter and wanted to be a doctor. They had such dreams.

Neither would see graduation.

We got a heavy ticket and six months probation. The guy had fallen asleep at the wheel. He swerved in our lane.

The wreck could have been avoided -- had we been driving sober.

Life is no longer sacred.

We know the stories.

She had been married seven years. She met her husband eight years previously, and it was love at first sight.

They had a six-year-old son. He looked just like his father.

She smiled while watching her family outside.

Her life was perfect.

Now.

Her hand slowly crept to her stomach. She flinched. She had carried two babies there. One was her son. The other no longer existed. She had divorced her first husband seven years ago. The dead child, the one she had aborted, might have been his.

She was not willing to take the risk.

That child was not part of her new family.

We don't listen.

We don't think.

We don't care.

Life is no longer important.

We live the stories.

Judith McDaniel is a junior journalism major from Oak Grove and serves as a news editor for The Tech Talk.