He was fixated by that slight glimmer of hope; it invited him, even required him, to enter. The last three attempts had been futile, but he was sure that this time he could accomplish his goal. He raised the knife a little higher until he could feel its pressure against the skin of his neck. The nervous excitement mixed with that shimmering hope, aided by the lack of blood flow in his brain, created needle-points of white as his vision faded to black. His last thought was that it looked like a night sky when there is a new moon.
Archive for 2011|Yearly archive page
Have you ever intensely hoped for something while fully expecting that it wouldn’t work out?
He got out of bed, in his mind tripping over his shoes even though they weren’t lying there. Looked into the mirror and it cracked, although he could still see himself clearly. Today would be long…
His company was buying Microsoft; if they hadn’t gone bankrupt overnight. Then his son’s championship game; if his son didn’t break his leg first. And this evening he would run his twenty-third marathon. He looked at his eighteen first-place trophies on his shelf, as they crashed to the floor.
Once life had been normal. Her head had been clear. She felt light – loved by all.
Now the disjointedness of her thoughts bothered her, but then it didn’t. Everything was hazy, shifty, fading in and out. Probably the best way to describe her current state of mind was…unstable. The only localizing point for her mind, her body, her soul, were the lights sitting, yes even singing, around this campfire.
And as she looked at these lights she couldn’t help but feel like she was laying on a picnic table gazing up at the stars on a dark night.
“That’s it?!” Samuel exclaimed in disappointed astonishment.
His uncle’s dying words: “The seed of the one gives rise to another, the fruit of this gift is worth ten lives together”.
Samuel believed this plant would give him the wealth of his uncle, so he waited for years for the fruit of the plant.
Then hope came this morning – the bud of a flower. He sat anxiously all day watching that bud grow and open.
Now it was dead. Gone.
Samuel knocked the plant over, trampling it.
Blinded he didn’t realize, before the fruit comes the flower must first die.
It was a nice clear day for their picnic, but as they spread out their blanket and sat down he said, “Did you feel that?”
“What?” she asked.
“I thought I felt a bit of rain.”
She had felt nothing and so they commenced with getting the food out of the basket they had packed.
“There was another drop!” he exclaimed.
“You’re just imagining things” she laughed.
“No, I’m serious! It’s raining.” he said, raising his eyes to the sky just in time to see the bird perched on the branch above him release another drop right onto his nose.
As his family and friends drew near with a cake bearing his name and 3 small candles, a rush of emotions altogether familiar to his little heart flooded his being. This emotion was akin to the feeling produced by an ice cream cone on a warm day or a brilliant rainbow when the sun is half hidden by the clouds. However, unlike the previously described instances, in this case the emotion was so intense that when the singing was done, rather than blowing out the candles before him, he instead burst into applause with a beaming smile on his face.
Romance, sweet romance.
His heart embraced another
With lasting cords of emotion
Not meant to be severed in
This life, nor the one to come.
Adultery, anger. Treachery, treason.
As she walked away he could not help but feel that a section of his soul was dying.
And he was the murderer.
Tears, holy tears.
His heart shed the emotions
Bearing weight in his soul.
Where the marks of past mistakes
Carried death into life. A living Hell.
Restoration, relief. Reconciliation, remorse.
Tears of pain, longing, and hope turn into a realistic recognition of the situation.
Some wounds never heal.
He grew up on the streets. His life seemed to be the opposite of most, instead of moving away from his parents they had moved away from him. First his dad moved out when he was 2, and then at the age of 8 his mom left as well. But it didn’t seem opposite to him, it was just his life.
Which is why this thing was so strange to him that he had no category for it, no understanding of it, no means with which to interact with it.
Which is why he was planning to move out of his house.
“Worthless. Broken. Ugly. Horrid. Trash.”
Sabrina listed off the words she would use to describe herself. She looked into his deep, caring, brown eyes as she spoke, sure that here, finally, she had found a friend, a confidant, someone to be trusted.
“Sabrina, you just told me everything that your dad, mom, teachers, boss, and previous boyfriends have said about you. But how would YOU describe yourself?”
Suddenly she realized that the words of others had not caused the damage in her heart, but rather her words to herself.
The tears in her heart brought the tears to her eyes.
The last time something had fully disrupted the life of this nation it was expected, counted on, they had precipitated it. Life’s disasters are a whole lot easier to take when they are planned upon, when there is a known reason behind them. That week 65 years ago, when two-hundred twenty thousand people died, the government was at fault. It happened like a story, with an introduction, a climax, and a conclusion – death.
But this time things would be different. Death wouldn’t come from above; little did people know death had been brewing from beneath for over a hundred years now.