Is it for the quiet? The questions it allows me, asked by myself. Every hour after midnight seems to contain some special quality, some magic.
As if the hours themselves are made of minutes
rather than devoured by them.
I am devoured by the minutes.
Eaten alive by the second hand, these thoughts are not mine.
These thoughts have come before, and every moment alone with myself is a moment I spend with a stranger.
When will I own myself completely? I find every day filled with compromise, and empty vows.
Hollow and sore, like the room that good intentions always seems to lead me to. Because the world around is as broken and twisted as myself, and heroes all hide their faces away, wishing not to be exposed as the demons they truly are.
Or so Fox News would have me believe.
Because every day is not another calendar page crossed off. Every day is a journey, a little bit more life breathed in. Every day is a prayer to living. And I go forth, past in one hand, future in the other, with self-doubt crumpled into my back pocket like a forgotten receipt, trying to breathe in every day, and distill this breath into ink in my blood for the words that I can say that my one day change someone's view.
And yes. Today may be the last time I breathe. But by any God you care to see, it will not be the last time any of you see the light. By the bones of the writers and poets who came before, and the epitaphs and allegories they etched with their breath, by the burning paths they lit in our minds and our shuddering hearts, this is only the beginning.
I keep forgetting that this is only a beginning.
1 comments:
This is beyond good. :)
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