Killjoy

I shouldn’t write about Boris Becker being jailed to two and a half years for faking his bankruptcy. The 6-time major champion deprived his creditors of millions by transferring his assets to third persons. I shouldn’t, because the ruse looks familiar. Time was when doing the right thing was the right thing to do.

But now even writing about something bad is bad. Otherwise, I will be colored red, or worse, beaten black and blue. Even if the truth is colorless with blinding brightness. It has no other version except the real, genuine, authentic and factual reality. I have to be redundant, hoping against hope that others so blinded discern fact from fiction. The truth stands alone but lonely, with a few company despised by many.

I shouldn’t write about the disgrace of Boris, lest I dishonor his historic rise to tennis after he won Wimbledon at the age of 17. I should leave him at that. Writing anything subsequent that ruins his honor and reputation is indecent. And he is 54. I should consider his age.

Instead, I should write about success of athletes only, never about how they struggled by their lonesome. Or how they are abandoned by the duty bound to nurture them to be champions, if not to perfection. Or how they self-destruct, like Tiger Woods did. I shouldn’t write about how they cheat to win, like Lance Armstrong did. Otherwise, I picture them bad and their fans feel bad, like many before who castigated media for exposing our overage little league world champions.

I shouldn’t capture shanties below the monumental third bridge. Otherwise, I ruin proud celebration of the south and embarrass its people. It is wrong to remind all about reality on the ground, while many love to like the filtered, the brushed and the photo shopped.

I shouldn’t post a photograph with a bomber and bummer below, because it drops bombshell of reality that booming business does not alleviate poverty. It takes about a hundred to pass by the bridge in a matter of minutes, while people below it do not have a hundred to buy food for a matter of days. I should only write about the passage to convenience above and not the agony of survival below.

I shouldn’t, lest I burst the bubble of fantasy onto the rubble of reality. I should only write about the alternate universe of facts that readers like to read and choose to believe. I shouldn’t fail students who cheat lest I compromise integrity of the examinations. I shouldn’t write about indignity before foreign dignitaries. Otherwise, I embarrass my own country to the world like it never knew.

I shouldn’t file a case against the rapist of my daughter lest I ruin her honor and future. I shouldn’t report domestic violence because it is a private matter, even if the battered woman bleeds to death. I shouldn’t write about tax evasion because I use infrastructure incidental to corruption. I should only write about the good and the beautiful, never the pitiful. Otherwise, I am a bad writer. For, a good writer should write in good taste and in the process betray public interest. I shouldn’t kill people’s joy, because in lies they so enjoy.