fallfromgrace

"all flesh is grass..."

I rode home on the bus, my hands tightly clasping my newly hemmed jeans. I looked around at the people who occupied the seats around me; they each had their story. they were books, and I was riding a library home. Their story was the anxious voice of progress. They all had forged goals from the past, hopes and dreams for a future they yearned to own. Their minds worried about the bills that were left unpaid, who their children would grow up being, and which beer to buy at the corner store. Their eyes, with the glint of the mid-day sun, reflected each of their unspoken doubts and fears. They idled the ride away with blank expressions, trying so desperately to hide from everyone the turmoil that they thought they alone faced in living: that is, to live means to be alive. I wondered about their childhoods, when their tale was just being wrought. When they were children, did the truth of their future frowns mar the beauty of their youthful smile? Could they ever reclaim that innocence of living in the now, enjoying the breeze and sunshine while playing decadently carefree? As the circuit progressed its pace, we came by the cemetary. beyond it's gates lie the collected works of a thousand authors, slowly crumbling and largely forgotten. I wondered about their stories, and if anyone would have the passion to recount them; If the memory of their time had also been lain to rest while they slumbered deep in the earth. Occasionally as I surveyed the green landscape, strewn with the hewn rocks of testament to their occupants existance I saw the faint wisp of color: a flower whose beauty hearkened back to the beauty of the honored's life. Would the people around me be honored in such a way? would I? There is so much in life that is beautiful, so much that makes it all worthwhile, and in spite of it our lives are filled with tragedy and pain. Sometimes the very pages of our living tome are written with our own blood and tears. That invisible assailant, "The Bad", haunts us and would do all he can to prevent The Good from occurring or being remembered.

As I exited that travelling house of novels, I walked back home pondering what I had read. What makes this all worthwhile? What can possibly justify the pain and anguish of life's cruel humor? What would make my memory last forever? And then it dawned on me, with the sun on my face and the breeze brushing at my skin:

We are immortalized not for what we have written in our own lives, but our writing in another's. My own story may be vacant of interest; it may place me as the tragic hero in a fight of man versus man, man versus machine, or man versus the unknown. But that's not the point of our lives... we aren't meant to put ourselves on the bestseller list. Instead, we should seek to enrich the stories of the people around us, in whatever way we can; To bring light, love, and beauty where there is darkness, cruelty and nastiness. In this we may help to make this world a much more pleasant read.