It’s beautiful and I hate it.
It’s sunny and 75 degrees. There’s not a cloud in the sky. The birds are singing in unison, wildlife is running around in the forest, and wildflowers are growing in the cracks between the railroad tracks. It’s like the weather equivalent of the poster child for an ideal climate and it disgusts me. It’s disrespectful. I’ve been to 3 concentration camps this week and it’s been the same every time. The more I find myself engulfed in the beautiful atmosphere the more the pit digs deeper in my stomach. I shouldn’t feel like this in a place where so many lives were taken. It feels like some sick illusion to disassociate me from the horror that happened not even 100 years ago.
I wish it was cold and dark and rainy. I wish it was so miserable that I couldn’t help but want to leave as soon as I could. I wish it was awkward and my feet were wet and my shirt was sticking to my back.
I wish it was miserable, but it’s just not.
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