I just realized, while smoking and drinking cider, alone in the dark, looking out my window and listening to New Model Army, that I'm dying for something beautiful to happen.
I know that somewhere it is. This is a huge world, filled with billions of human lives, seething, blooming and unfolding like a field of flowers in the sun. I know that life is racing out before all of us like a forest fire, and that in a field of such potentiality, there simply must be pockets of sublimity flowering amongst the embers.
I know that my Mother holds many swords, but that in one hand she holds a pearl, and in another a lotus. I know that there is beauty and wisdom to be found in the center of her storm, because I have seen, and been, both.
I see those I love most engaged in a children's crusade, although they see themselves as warriors; bloody survivors, scarred and broken. I see them staggering forward, insisting that they no longer believe in hope.
And I wonder, if they no longer believe in hope, what Bethlehem it is that they think they are slouching towards? How can we choose to live if we truly believe that there really is no golconda, no tribe? Wht gp through the motions of life if we've allowed the children inside us to turn as bitter and sour as curdled milk?
Tired. I'm tired of fighting.
Bravery isn't to be found in survival, if survival means the sacrifice of everything you believe in. There's no point in making it through to the end if you have to sacrifice the most beautiful parts of yourself to get there.
Bravery is staying innocent. Cynicism is cowardice, and a coward's form of suicide, not a survival trait. Courage means never becoming your own armor.
You haven't won if you reach the finish line as an empty shell.
But it's been a long time. And I'm tired.
I know that somewhere on the face of this blue-green pearl, on the side kissed by the sun, or the side kissed by the moon, something beautiful is happening, something right. I know that in a world of six billion stories, there are legends, fairy tales being told within the hearts of living, breathing children.
Mother,
I need a taste of something beautiful.
I need a taste of faith. Just a taste, after all of these tests.
Mother, may I have a lotus blossom, please?
I know that somewhere it is. This is a huge world, filled with billions of human lives, seething, blooming and unfolding like a field of flowers in the sun. I know that life is racing out before all of us like a forest fire, and that in a field of such potentiality, there simply must be pockets of sublimity flowering amongst the embers.
I know that my Mother holds many swords, but that in one hand she holds a pearl, and in another a lotus. I know that there is beauty and wisdom to be found in the center of her storm, because I have seen, and been, both.
I see those I love most engaged in a children's crusade, although they see themselves as warriors; bloody survivors, scarred and broken. I see them staggering forward, insisting that they no longer believe in hope.
And I wonder, if they no longer believe in hope, what Bethlehem it is that they think they are slouching towards? How can we choose to live if we truly believe that there really is no golconda, no tribe? Wht gp through the motions of life if we've allowed the children inside us to turn as bitter and sour as curdled milk?
Tired. I'm tired of fighting.
Bravery isn't to be found in survival, if survival means the sacrifice of everything you believe in. There's no point in making it through to the end if you have to sacrifice the most beautiful parts of yourself to get there.
Bravery is staying innocent. Cynicism is cowardice, and a coward's form of suicide, not a survival trait. Courage means never becoming your own armor.
You haven't won if you reach the finish line as an empty shell.
But it's been a long time. And I'm tired.
I know that somewhere on the face of this blue-green pearl, on the side kissed by the sun, or the side kissed by the moon, something beautiful is happening, something right. I know that in a world of six billion stories, there are legends, fairy tales being told within the hearts of living, breathing children.
Mother,
I need a taste of something beautiful.
I need a taste of faith. Just a taste, after all of these tests.
Mother, may I have a lotus blossom, please?
I tend to be cynical because I think it's kinda funny. Or it's where a lot of humor can sprout from. But then I guess it's not completely cynical then, is it?