Years have passed. I sit once again in the long, wet grass. Finally, the tears etch themselves across my face as I stare woefully in awe at the tiny white buds closed against the rain. Hunched over, the black dome of my umbrella shields me from the rest of the world.
Wracked with guilt and shame...the utter, indefinite anguish.
Life is not what I thought it was. It cannot be that way...can it?
Years have passed and only now can I breathe a bit closer to the extent I used to enjoy without a thought about it. A bit. I breathe.
Why must there be such cruelty in a place made so beautiful? A question a child might ask, but one that dwells so deeply within me I wonder if it might actually be the very core of my soul. Why must such evil, such ugliness, radiate outward and consume all those unlucky enough to be in it's way, spreading like a virus, pitting good against good without their knowledge, without their consent...oh it makes me cry. I cry for this and the fact that I am not allowed to cry about this freely in the world we live in. It is something we must accept...and move on from. As if that excuses it...
Everything I see is beautiful...
But I am not supposed to feel it. Because to admit and accept that cruel things play out amongst the beautiful is to deny the beautiful it's fullness. It bars my ability to really truly see it all, feel it all, smell it and hear it all...all the way to my core. The two states simply cannot coexist.
Always on the edge of something meaningful... I feel this power, this...energy. I don't know what it is and I cannot tell where it is coming from other than I can feel it deep within me. It emanates out with a force too powerful for me to hold. Is it wrong? Is it love? Is it the Spirit?
Or is it the Truth?
Sitting in the wet grass, in front of the little white buds, I look up to the trees. Slender black silhouettes -- birds -- sing to me from the very tips of the trees, shaking their feathers and calling, always calling. They don't mind the rain. They don't mind anything.
Clinging to the fragile branches at the zenith, framed against the cold gray sky, beacons of life still pure amidst the downpour.
