To Err

Books to movies always grind my gears a bit. It always seems rushed. A book that takes about two hours to read, turned into a two hour movie (Ender's Game) is one crime after another as they rush past monumental aspects of the story.

I haven't had a bad day in weeks, but I think that, perhaps, today was one such. Not all of the day, certainly, just the motif of the day scraped incessantly, like sharp nails scratching at a rash until it bleeds. That makes it sound advertent. Sometimes such things are, and sometimes it's simple distraction, forgetting people are people. I know this; I've fallen into this same trap often. So why does something so expected stab at my heart, grind into my ears with the cruel screech of fingernails on chalkboards, the agonizing snap of splintering bones?

Because I'm only human and, more than that, the weakest of them all.