waiting
I know what it is, finally. I was watching Elizabethtown, and it, well, didn't exactly strike me as much as whispered to me. In the voice of Kirsten Dunst no less, which I can't complain about, and then I smiled, cuz I knew it was true. I'm waiting to be saved.
Somewhere, maybe out beyond the great, memoryless sea; maybe screaming over and through the passes of the mountains; maybe down the street from me, is a person courageous enough and caring enough to save me. Not that I need saving mind you; the law isn't eternally two steps behind me and neither am I typing from the bowels of a hopeless cave in the slithering darkness. No, it's isn't that, not the act, although admittedly that would be nice. But rather, the indescribable bond of compassion that comes from sharing with another the strength from which they may be delivered from the lonliest depths of utter despair.
I've waited all these years and wondered, what is this feeling just below my thoughts that constantly berieves me of contentment; that makes nothing I do ever feel... worthy. All those things are pale imitations of the untamed journey I have not taken from which I may not be able to make alone, and from which I may yet meet the wonderous, luminous soul that may save me from the horrors I encounter without, and within my own soul.
I can imagine it so sweetly. I style myself made of stern stuff, rather high and a little mighty one might say, so that that which might lay me low would indeed be a black and inscrutible foe. There is a landscape of fire and smoke, black as hate to obscure the shape of all things. It is barren; it is the landscape of my despair. Out in the world, there is one who can bring me back from such a place. Not only with sympathy, with compassion or love, but with joy, with delight, with time and steady pace. With music, with laughter and smiles, with old stories and polaroid pictures. I realize the unwavering peace of her spirit obliterates all the stubborn will and ironclad intellect of my nature, and love comes as natural as breathing just then. At least, that's how I hope it goes. I've probably seen too many movies.
Somewhere, maybe out beyond the great, memoryless sea; maybe screaming over and through the passes of the mountains; maybe down the street from me, is a person courageous enough and caring enough to save me. Not that I need saving mind you; the law isn't eternally two steps behind me and neither am I typing from the bowels of a hopeless cave in the slithering darkness. No, it's isn't that, not the act, although admittedly that would be nice. But rather, the indescribable bond of compassion that comes from sharing with another the strength from which they may be delivered from the lonliest depths of utter despair.
I've waited all these years and wondered, what is this feeling just below my thoughts that constantly berieves me of contentment; that makes nothing I do ever feel... worthy. All those things are pale imitations of the untamed journey I have not taken from which I may not be able to make alone, and from which I may yet meet the wonderous, luminous soul that may save me from the horrors I encounter without, and within my own soul.
I can imagine it so sweetly. I style myself made of stern stuff, rather high and a little mighty one might say, so that that which might lay me low would indeed be a black and inscrutible foe. There is a landscape of fire and smoke, black as hate to obscure the shape of all things. It is barren; it is the landscape of my despair. Out in the world, there is one who can bring me back from such a place. Not only with sympathy, with compassion or love, but with joy, with delight, with time and steady pace. With music, with laughter and smiles, with old stories and polaroid pictures. I realize the unwavering peace of her spirit obliterates all the stubborn will and ironclad intellect of my nature, and love comes as natural as breathing just then. At least, that's how I hope it goes. I've probably seen too many movies.