On Daring to Live

More of a journal entry than a story.

  As I learn, see, and feel more, nothing perplexes me quite as much as those in dire straits who put no effort to evict themselves from their dilapidated palace. Somehow the bauble of a new movie, or a video game, or even a trip to the park brings relief to them. They are happy with it. And yet they still sit in their muddied puddles, bathing in filth. Filth as shame, defeat, and self-pity. I wish they could see. I wish I could say it lovingly, and speak with patience, but the intricacies of emotion escape this clumsy tongue.

     Is temporary relief that satisfactory, soothing, and endearing for them? Or are they too afraid to look at themselves and realize that their faults lay upon their shoulders alone? The cracks in their ley-lines lay undisturbed, and what’s worse - unobserved, cracking evermore with each passing moment that’s transfigured into memory. Locked in the cavalcades of time.

     Have they tried endlessly, only to fail? Or did they never venture to try at all? I’m no saint - I’ve been cast amongst cobwebs myself. Vice takes place of virtue in a defeated man. But that was not who I wanted to be. Everyone’s path to enlightenment is arduous, painful, and treacherous, but most of all - Different. I clawed at rocks sharp as razors, and plunged my soles into footholds composed of spike, only to collapse in a pool of crimson sap upon a cliff-face. But I would not lie, and crawled for miles past that.

     And though these self-inflicted Stigmata remain as tormenting as ever, there is a beautiful pride to them. And as I look down at this healing frame, I pause to wonder who I would be if I had never set my mind forth to change. I’ve been, and am, unloving, yet I love in ways mysterious to even myself. Some days there is a surprise that bursts from my chest to lay in scope of my eyes, and though it came from me, I still wonder of whom it was crafted. I don’t know why it bothers me so to look at defeated souls. I want to wrap these hands around their shoulders like iron, rip them to their feet, shouting with anger

“Try! Try Harder! Try until you break! You are worth something! You have worth!”

     But instead I sigh and lean back to wonder if this is truly the answer. You can help a man along. You can show him the road, and even give him a buggy to travel, bumpy as it may be, but who can ultimately give these souls worth in the end but themselves?

Hmph. My head aches.

Reviews

[Luisa]

I remember when you wrote this. I actually really love this piece. It's conversational in a way, because the voice is so strong, but it reads as an impassioned monologue or even a speech. The descriptive words you use – "dilapidated," "bauble," "filth" – really create a clear attitude of frustration, mainly with others but at times with yourself. I just think the voice is really strong and the message is clear and I like it.