Objectivity = Fiction

My German friend, he thinks he knows some shit.
Sitting on the couch in judgment,
He doesn’t see himself
Bringing strife into my house.
I see that objectivity is just not given to us.
We are tied to the past and
The experience of our fathers,
Directed by loyalties and mental constructs,
Perspective, perception, and selective inattention.
We may project and identify,
Own and disown aspects of humanity.
The truth might exist somewhere,
But alas… it is elusive.
We are left with our imagination,
Wishes and aversions, and
A variable ability for discernment.
I am realizing that objectivity = fiction,
A fantasy like fairness or justice
Or perhaps even peace.
It might be smarter not to spend his days
In judgment of fighters he may never meet,
Facing despair he may never know,
In faraway countries, where he has never been.
He just doesn't know...
Feeling defeated by life, he struggles mostly on the inside.
Opposing violence and terror,
He takes sides in a war that isn’t his,
Choosing an imaginary participation
That does not help anyone,
And for us it is damaging and futile, too.
A passionate observer of onscreen violence,
He identifies with nomads, anarchists, and pacifists, too.
Seething with rage in the nightmare of his passivity
He rattles on the bars.
I want to tell him that the door is open,
But he doesn’t want to hear.