Getting Lost Along The Way
The hope that was like water for my being is dashed out of the ewer of my soul. The stronger ones than I fall beaten to their knees and still I resent them. Why? If I can see them dropping to their knees then why should I resent what life they have? I should be the first one to offer them solace and respite from their misery. I am the first person to take delight in seeing those perfect ones come crashing to the ground and as they are tasting dirt I grin, overjoyed by their new knee-bound state.
This is not to say that I think I am perfect. Rather the opposite I do believe. If I were a painting, my flaws would be seen as priceless, but as a human so many flaws make me worthless. And when I see them fall, I can think for a moment that they now know some of what it is like to be me.
If I struggled to make myself heard, I am weak. If I force my voice over the deafening roars around me, I am overbearing. There is no happy medium. Mine is a voice that just echoes in the darkness and leaves no trace when it is gone. Should I mourn the pain that fills me and saps my will to write? Or should I embrace that pain because it has grown to such a depth that I cannot put it to paper?
I need inspiration.
I need a light that burns me into brilliance again.
This is not to say that I think I am perfect. Rather the opposite I do believe. If I were a painting, my flaws would be seen as priceless, but as a human so many flaws make me worthless. And when I see them fall, I can think for a moment that they now know some of what it is like to be me.
If I struggled to make myself heard, I am weak. If I force my voice over the deafening roars around me, I am overbearing. There is no happy medium. Mine is a voice that just echoes in the darkness and leaves no trace when it is gone. Should I mourn the pain that fills me and saps my will to write? Or should I embrace that pain because it has grown to such a depth that I cannot put it to paper?
I need inspiration.
I need a light that burns me into brilliance again.