[TM] 305. Write about something you've outlived.
Once upon a time, there was an idea that turned into a dream that became a vision. That's always how it starts isn't it? I'd like to say it came from something noble and true, but it was born in fear and heartbreak and anger. Still, sometimes the truest things come out of our darkest moments.
All we wanted in the beginning was to be safe. I suppose that's all they wanted, too. All anyone wants, in the end--to be safe, loved, wanted. We just had better means to assure our survival and safety when threatened. And the others were right--we were just children at the beginning. Four frightened children who'd lost everything. But then he came, and from our idea born in fear, the vision grew into something so much more. Not just safety and protection and hiding, but a revolution, a way to change the world, to save it from those who were destroying it, to heal it from the wounds it had sustained, and begin again, unafraid, unfettered, free.
We were frightened children, and the vision was compelling, and we believed in it, and so we came together and with his guidance we four became twelve--twelve disciples for the new messiah. I know that's how he saw it, at least. Even after the first salvo failed and we 12 divided into our separate factions among ourselves, we still were united against them. There was some comfort in that, even amidst blood and death and betrayal in the ranks, in between disagreements and plots and secrets and cells--we had other people who knew us, knew our deepest, darkest selves, and our dreams and hopes, and our greatest fears. We had a place we built, a place meant to keep us safe from them, by whatever means necessary.
Maybe it went wrong, maybe no one else can understand, maybe my sons think we were all mad, or evil or megalomaniacs just looking to aggrandize ourselves. But we kept other children from being put in camps the way we were. We patrolled ourselves and kept the most dangerous among us off the streets, locked away from harming innocents and exposing the rest of us. We kept our children safe and gave them as normal of childhoods as we could, sheltering them from the world we'd known and the horror we'd been thrust in too early.
And now...it's all bones and ashes. I'm the only one left standing, and even the remnants of the building we built have blown away on the wind. We can talk about starting again, about building a newer, kinder Company, but that only shows me how little they understand, even now. Who we were together, what we built physically and metaphorically--it's gone. My friends are gone. My life's work is gone. Everyone who understood, who knew...is gone.
I started it. I suppose it's only fitting I am the one left to grieve its demise, but somehow...this wasn't something I saw coming.
All we wanted in the beginning was to be safe. I suppose that's all they wanted, too. All anyone wants, in the end--to be safe, loved, wanted. We just had better means to assure our survival and safety when threatened. And the others were right--we were just children at the beginning. Four frightened children who'd lost everything. But then he came, and from our idea born in fear, the vision grew into something so much more. Not just safety and protection and hiding, but a revolution, a way to change the world, to save it from those who were destroying it, to heal it from the wounds it had sustained, and begin again, unafraid, unfettered, free.
We were frightened children, and the vision was compelling, and we believed in it, and so we came together and with his guidance we four became twelve--twelve disciples for the new messiah. I know that's how he saw it, at least. Even after the first salvo failed and we 12 divided into our separate factions among ourselves, we still were united against them. There was some comfort in that, even amidst blood and death and betrayal in the ranks, in between disagreements and plots and secrets and cells--we had other people who knew us, knew our deepest, darkest selves, and our dreams and hopes, and our greatest fears. We had a place we built, a place meant to keep us safe from them, by whatever means necessary.
Maybe it went wrong, maybe no one else can understand, maybe my sons think we were all mad, or evil or megalomaniacs just looking to aggrandize ourselves. But we kept other children from being put in camps the way we were. We patrolled ourselves and kept the most dangerous among us off the streets, locked away from harming innocents and exposing the rest of us. We kept our children safe and gave them as normal of childhoods as we could, sheltering them from the world we'd known and the horror we'd been thrust in too early.
And now...it's all bones and ashes. I'm the only one left standing, and even the remnants of the building we built have blown away on the wind. We can talk about starting again, about building a newer, kinder Company, but that only shows me how little they understand, even now. Who we were together, what we built physically and metaphorically--it's gone. My friends are gone. My life's work is gone. Everyone who understood, who knew...is gone.
I started it. I suppose it's only fitting I am the one left to grieve its demise, but somehow...this wasn't something I saw coming.