Save Us

This isn't actually a poem, but it's not a story either. It's like a stream-of-consciousness piece.

We all see the same things--war, death, birth, flourishing, honor, victory, loss, devestation, pleasure, sorrow, anger. But the eyes are only receptors, and in the complexity of the human mind things are not as simple as 'it is what it is.' No. This complexity deprives us of the ability to really understand simplicity in the masses, and with our visual intake comes something called interpretation. This makes up our perception, and perception fuels everything you experience in life--the world of people revolves around it. It manifests itself as art, literature, revolution, invention, beautiful things and horrible things. We have so many views of one concept on earth that we could not ever record them all. But here comes into play this idea:

If everything is subject to perception, does that mean that the ideas of universal good and evil, beautiful and ugly, right and wrong, do not exist? This is what I believe. I believe that there is no such thing as imperfect or ugly. To me, everything holds some amount of beauty, because to someone out there in the world it is beautiful. Someone else would die for your garbage--whatever that garbage may be: emotion, material, people.

We don't realize it, but every day we throw people away. No, we don't consider them trash, but that is essentially their role to you, even if you care about them more than every limb on your body. If you neglect or disregard them, make them feel unwanted, their position is garbage beneath your pedestal, even if you hold them up on a cloud in your head. In that situation, it is not your opinion that has the most importance, but theirs. As I see it, the person who is being mistreated is the person who has the most say in the situation.

To me, everything is beautiful. I'm a writer, and that is how I see things. Everything I see is a subject of inspiration and reflection, philosophical thought and question. But above all beauties there was one for me, and for the longest time I considered him my angel. To people, beauty can be many things: the first time you kiss, your tears of sorrow or happiness, a flower, a butterfly, another person, books, photographs, memories, anger, rain, death, ideas--yes, I can see beauty in all of that. But this beauty was more than that, and I could not possibly dare to compare the glistening of dew in the early morning light over a lavender petal, or the moment when a child makes their parents proud on stage infront of an audience, or the growth in light of a person who had previously withered and succumbed to darkness, to him. He made those things seem like dust on a forgotten grave, insignificant to the world--

My world.

Those things were greatly shadowed, those little pleasures of life, and he became my world--or, sometimes, I felt as if he had always been my world, and when I was younger I would search for his face amongst the vast expanse of grass before me, or in the clouds in the deep blue sky, or in the moonlight shattered over the lake water. I wasn't an artist in the sense of drawing, or I would have made masterpieces of him that would tower over even Da Vinci and Picasso in mystery and radiance. But as said, I am a writer, and my masterpieces instead flowed like a great river out of me in words, none of which could ever describe correctly what I had, this obscure notion of a paradise in flesh. I couldn't even grasp it, in its greatness. He would put even the Angel of Light to shame.

Like a doll he fell into my care, broken into a million bits, but still a doll. I tried to piece him back together, yet, as is so of human perception, I could not return him to his normal self in its exact form. While I fixed him little by little, I made my alterations. In building up its legs I taught it to stand because I could not understand simply sitting by and watching things. But being there for so long, patiently being fixed and chipped again upon messups--being dropped or a piece put in the wrong place--one gets tired. I was not a craftsman. I could not fix something I had never seen or understood before--a doll; an angel. It was not in my hands that he was meant to stay or finish repairing. With the legs that I had built for him to stand upon, the little doll hopped away from my table. I loved the doll, having put so much care and love into what I did, what I felt I was meant to do. But I could not stop it, I could not deprive him of that wish. Out of love, I let him go. The loss, however painful, of my exquisite little doll was beautiful in its own right. I saw strength in these pieces that I had not seen before. Amidst this daze, I only hoped that he would find a more capable person to be fixed by correctly, who would nurture him and give him a comfortable bed to sleep in alongside them, who would hold him tight when it got dark and would treat him with as much importance as they might a great diamond or a god. I thought I treated the doll well, with my clumsy hands, but I was not the one being worked upon so much, though in fixing him many of my own 'faults' were repaired as well. It was not my view that mattered, but his, as he had entrusted himself in my hands. Yet, I know that he will be more brilliant and breathtaking with someone who can better care for him.

God, grant him a guardian who won't succumb to the ignorance of man; a celestial being of unmeasurable beauty, for I believe only another like himself could truly understand what you, in whatever form, have graced the world with. For in giving the world this idea of complexity--of perception--you have allowed them to be blinded to the true gifts of life.

Take care of my angel on the open sea, captain.

He's in for a long voyage.

Pray for us all.