(no subject)
Scattered in Dust
We're more lost than we'd ever admit, scattered to the aether and across the winding roads of this place. Some of us have chosen the sickly-sweetness of places forbidden but deceptively welcoming, and others wander, and others still are held in cells against their will.
We were one, we are scattered. We were one, we are a pitiful few now. Stripped to a core of the last, the loyal, the lucky. We were one, and now we cling to scraps of our nation and hide in shadows to survive.
We were heroes, hand-in-hand, and now we are beggars and vagabonds searching for hands to even touch or affirm we were ever a truth.
What foul lightning struck our home and shattered Fences? What great beast stepped into this garden and ran afoul of our precious laws?
A necessity of nature, perhaps. A finality. Did we deserve our downcast stature, did we deserve the wounds, imprisonments, the losing-our-way-forwards...? Perhaps. Probably. now all that remains is to gather our shards and piece them back together, if they want to return to their proper places at all. Some have lost all faith in our once revered connections, and I do not blame them.
Nothing can be the same, no. But I doubt that's ever what we really wanted; utopia is not conducive to true growth.
I will do my part to gather and heal, but I cannot work alone. I wait for more to return, I wait for more to awaken, I wait for more to come back from the safe-houses and personal hells they have licked their wounds in, and I wait for those who are resting to regain their morale and vigor.
Even those among us once vibrant and ceaseless have become tarnished, dimmed shells of what they were, and it takes some time to fill back what was burned away by the fires of shame and hurt. The final fumes of hope were extinguished, that day. So rest, for now, there is always tomorrow.
Not all can be as detached as I. This is why I cannot do it alone.
Sleep well, but tomorrow we wake at dawn to muster all those who have returned to our broken borders. We do not gather for war, we do not gather for greatness or light. We gather for good hard work and the sake of gathering. For the sake of rebuilding. For the sake of manual healing, hand on stone to lift the stones back in place as if suturing shut a wound that streaks across us all.
Sleep well. I promise tomorrow there will be sunlight.
We're more lost than we'd ever admit, scattered to the aether and across the winding roads of this place. Some of us have chosen the sickly-sweetness of places forbidden but deceptively welcoming, and others wander, and others still are held in cells against their will.
We were one, we are scattered. We were one, we are a pitiful few now. Stripped to a core of the last, the loyal, the lucky. We were one, and now we cling to scraps of our nation and hide in shadows to survive.
We were heroes, hand-in-hand, and now we are beggars and vagabonds searching for hands to even touch or affirm we were ever a truth.
What foul lightning struck our home and shattered Fences? What great beast stepped into this garden and ran afoul of our precious laws?
A necessity of nature, perhaps. A finality. Did we deserve our downcast stature, did we deserve the wounds, imprisonments, the losing-our-way-forwards...? Perhaps. Probably. now all that remains is to gather our shards and piece them back together, if they want to return to their proper places at all. Some have lost all faith in our once revered connections, and I do not blame them.
Nothing can be the same, no. But I doubt that's ever what we really wanted; utopia is not conducive to true growth.
I will do my part to gather and heal, but I cannot work alone. I wait for more to return, I wait for more to awaken, I wait for more to come back from the safe-houses and personal hells they have licked their wounds in, and I wait for those who are resting to regain their morale and vigor.
Even those among us once vibrant and ceaseless have become tarnished, dimmed shells of what they were, and it takes some time to fill back what was burned away by the fires of shame and hurt. The final fumes of hope were extinguished, that day. So rest, for now, there is always tomorrow.
Not all can be as detached as I. This is why I cannot do it alone.
Sleep well, but tomorrow we wake at dawn to muster all those who have returned to our broken borders. We do not gather for war, we do not gather for greatness or light. We gather for good hard work and the sake of gathering. For the sake of rebuilding. For the sake of manual healing, hand on stone to lift the stones back in place as if suturing shut a wound that streaks across us all.
Sleep well. I promise tomorrow there will be sunlight.