This is a little diatribe I wrote in August of last year that I just rediscovered. It just kind of grabbed me and now I want to share it again.
Watching something truly beautiful die slowly, I wonder if it is wrong to feel such awe to have been priveleged enough to have seen it in its prime while clenching my teeth in rage at those that have its blood on their hands.
Are my hands really so clean? They are drenched in the blood of so many dreams, but I can't help but feel that I did all I could to save this one. It was just too big, too glorious, too potent. I could not save it alone. I tried, but hadn't the strength.
No.
I had the strength. What I lacked was the courage. I tried with the expectation of failing. So I failed. Imagine that.
It seems so obvious, as I'm standing here on a sinking ship, what should have been done. Now, I fear, it is too late.
Is it though? Or is that just my hallmark cowardice staying my hand from making a real difference?
I love you. I many not even know you. I may not have met you. I may not even be aware of your existance. I just know that somewhere in you is something beautiful, something vibrant, and something that you have probably forgotten. I love that part of you. Please, let it out to play. Feed it, nurture it, and hold onto it no matter how painful the thorns. Most of all, love that part of you even if the rest of you makes you retch with disgust.
I have lost so much. My heart is heavy with tears I haven't found a way to shed. I feel ready to burst. I can only lament this for so long before my sorrow and bitterness prove to be the distraction that lets even more of the beauty in the world, in my life, slip through my fingers. I shouldn't let that happen.
You shouldn't let that happen either.
Watching something truly beautiful die slowly, I wonder if it is wrong to feel such awe to have been priveleged enough to have seen it in its prime while clenching my teeth in rage at those that have its blood on their hands.
Are my hands really so clean? They are drenched in the blood of so many dreams, but I can't help but feel that I did all I could to save this one. It was just too big, too glorious, too potent. I could not save it alone. I tried, but hadn't the strength.
No.
I had the strength. What I lacked was the courage. I tried with the expectation of failing. So I failed. Imagine that.
It seems so obvious, as I'm standing here on a sinking ship, what should have been done. Now, I fear, it is too late.
Is it though? Or is that just my hallmark cowardice staying my hand from making a real difference?
I love you. I many not even know you. I may not have met you. I may not even be aware of your existance. I just know that somewhere in you is something beautiful, something vibrant, and something that you have probably forgotten. I love that part of you. Please, let it out to play. Feed it, nurture it, and hold onto it no matter how painful the thorns. Most of all, love that part of you even if the rest of you makes you retch with disgust.
I have lost so much. My heart is heavy with tears I haven't found a way to shed. I feel ready to burst. I can only lament this for so long before my sorrow and bitterness prove to be the distraction that lets even more of the beauty in the world, in my life, slip through my fingers. I shouldn't let that happen.
You shouldn't let that happen either.
