Love prospers when a fault is forgiven,
but dwelling on it separates close friends.
A cheerful heart is good medicine,
but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.
Fire tests the purity of silver and gold, but the Lord tests the heart.
Deceit fills hearts that are plotting evil; joy fills hearts that are planning peace!
Do not let mercy and truth leave you.
Fasten them around your neck.
Write them on the tablet of your heart.
Don’t say, “I will get even for this wrong.”
Wait for the Lord to handle the matter.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
"Do not let mercy and truth leave you. Fasten them around your neck. Write them on the tablet of your heart."
It is hard to believe that I have never been alone.
It is hard to understand that something that loves me has seen every tear and waited until now to give me hope.
But I suppose I wasn't ready for it until now.
I suppose I finally pissed God off enough that he took action.
First, he took everything from me. My motivation to go to school, to manage my life with grace. Two of my closest friends, one several months ago and another just a few days ago. My trust for my parents. The love of my life, who I took for granted and treated horribly, who my heart aches for because I fear I will never get the opportunity to set things right. My happiness has been gone for a long time, as has my faith in myself and self-esteem.
Yesterday I looked in the mirror and saw a sad, ugly, unloved, useless person.
Today I see something forgivable. I see someone whose pride and fear has reigned supreme, who has driven away love of all kinds for fear of hurt and rejection. I see someone who is foolish to a fault, prideful to destruction, and hurt beyond understanding. I have pushed people away, judged them, and favored myself a superior being. But all of these things can be healed.
Until now, I've been too proud, too scared to truly trust God with my life.
Last night, God told me to read the Bible, and I did. He told me to read the Proverbs, and I did. Let me be clear that I am still a committed Unitarian Universalist. I believe in the inherent worth and dignity of all people, and I believe that all religions have some truth and much wisdom to share. I believe that God wanted me to read the Bible because he knew it would bring me comfort, and it did.
I haven't read much, and I would not consider myself knowledgeable on this topic by any means. That being said, I think I understand now where my issues lie.
My troubles are rooted in pride. I have always been too strong to ask for or accept help. I pride myself on being independent, but have never realized that I simply cannot get through life alone. I have believed myself wise, intelligent, beautiful, and superior for all of my life. By these thoughts, I have distanced myself from other people, resulting in shallow relationships and an empty heart.
I can't say I am, as of this moment, done, but I am ready to cease being proud. I need not rely of material things or the praise of man to feel complete. I need other people. I need them to know my heart and I need to know theirs. I need to care and to see them as whole individuals, divinely created and inherently good.
I need to ask for help and let it come to me. I need to let fear of loss of power or respect disappear and allow myself to be vulnerable. I need to give my time, money, love, and emotions freely and without hesitation. I need to be a living example of compassion and love. My life is not for me alone.
My life is for me to live in the service and love of others, to be spent in the sunshine of compassion and joy. I will no longer let depression rule me. It is a medical issue that can be treated with medicine and healed by surrounding myself with light and giving myself wholly to good works and love.
God has blessed me immensely with this understanding. If it helps me to repair the damage I have done in my past I will be happy, but if I must let those bridges burn I will eventually be happy too, because nothing happens that is not God's will. If I trust in him I will one day be complete, and happier than I could ever imagine.
It is hard to understand that something that loves me has seen every tear and waited until now to give me hope.
But I suppose I wasn't ready for it until now.
I suppose I finally pissed God off enough that he took action.
First, he took everything from me. My motivation to go to school, to manage my life with grace. Two of my closest friends, one several months ago and another just a few days ago. My trust for my parents. The love of my life, who I took for granted and treated horribly, who my heart aches for because I fear I will never get the opportunity to set things right. My happiness has been gone for a long time, as has my faith in myself and self-esteem.
Yesterday I looked in the mirror and saw a sad, ugly, unloved, useless person.
Today I see something forgivable. I see someone whose pride and fear has reigned supreme, who has driven away love of all kinds for fear of hurt and rejection. I see someone who is foolish to a fault, prideful to destruction, and hurt beyond understanding. I have pushed people away, judged them, and favored myself a superior being. But all of these things can be healed.
Until now, I've been too proud, too scared to truly trust God with my life.
Last night, God told me to read the Bible, and I did. He told me to read the Proverbs, and I did. Let me be clear that I am still a committed Unitarian Universalist. I believe in the inherent worth and dignity of all people, and I believe that all religions have some truth and much wisdom to share. I believe that God wanted me to read the Bible because he knew it would bring me comfort, and it did.
I haven't read much, and I would not consider myself knowledgeable on this topic by any means. That being said, I think I understand now where my issues lie.
My troubles are rooted in pride. I have always been too strong to ask for or accept help. I pride myself on being independent, but have never realized that I simply cannot get through life alone. I have believed myself wise, intelligent, beautiful, and superior for all of my life. By these thoughts, I have distanced myself from other people, resulting in shallow relationships and an empty heart.
I can't say I am, as of this moment, done, but I am ready to cease being proud. I need not rely of material things or the praise of man to feel complete. I need other people. I need them to know my heart and I need to know theirs. I need to care and to see them as whole individuals, divinely created and inherently good.
I need to ask for help and let it come to me. I need to let fear of loss of power or respect disappear and allow myself to be vulnerable. I need to give my time, money, love, and emotions freely and without hesitation. I need to be a living example of compassion and love. My life is not for me alone.
My life is for me to live in the service and love of others, to be spent in the sunshine of compassion and joy. I will no longer let depression rule me. It is a medical issue that can be treated with medicine and healed by surrounding myself with light and giving myself wholly to good works and love.
God has blessed me immensely with this understanding. If it helps me to repair the damage I have done in my past I will be happy, but if I must let those bridges burn I will eventually be happy too, because nothing happens that is not God's will. If I trust in him I will one day be complete, and happier than I could ever imagine.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Alter
She stood in the back. He didn’t have a hope of catching her eye. He was only the opening act, barely a name, and yet the music moved through her, shaking her to the core like a hurricane rattles a fragile foundation of bones and mortar. She took a long drag from her cigarette and let it fall to the ground, heading for the exit. The night was young, but she was weary and unwilling to bear witness as the crowd around her departed from its state of righteous music-loving to one of drunken disorder. She slipped out the front door and past the line of hopefuls waiting to gain entrance. How young they all seemed.
The blocks stretched out before her as she headed toward her car. The streets were full of people, but she seemed to see through them, caring only for her destination. She did not know where she was going after she reached her destination, but it suddenly became extremely important that she reach it with haste. The parking garage came into view after several hurried moments. She climbed what seemed to be a hundred stairs before finally reaching the upper level.
On the horizon, buildings grew from the ground, great vines and weeds breaking through the concrete to form the skyline, a breathtaking sight that she had never before been eager to leave behind. She lived and breathed for the city, for the bustle and the crisp air. She dreamed of monumental street signs and faceless crowds, glamour and power and all the rest. She dreamed of dreams long left abandoned.
He leaned casually against the railing at the side of the garage, as if the industrial wires separating him from sure death were a suitable replacement for caution. With a ragged mane of curly hair, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he was a sight to behold. His gentle smile could almost convince her that everything was okay.
“You look good,” he said, nodding to her platform heels and low top. She didn’t even dream of dressing like that anymore.
“Got a light?” she replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her bra.
“Classy as ever, love,” he said, lighting her cigarette with his own.
“I do what I can.” She breathed in deeply, appreciating the tender way the smoke tickled her throat and lungs, teasing her with release. “How have you been?”
“Dreadful at best, wretched at worst.” She nodded, leaning against the railing next to him. She refused to make eye contact. “You?”
“Wretched at best,” she replied. From the corner of her eye, she took a short look at him. He hadn’t shaved in days and looked dreadfully thin. Smoke poured from his mouth when he spoke and his eyes were rimmed with black.
“You get what you deserve, I guess.”
She turned her head, staring directly at him. “What,” she spat, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Look,” he turned his body to face her, casting his cigarette aside, “you had your problems and I had mine, but the difference is that I faced mine and you ran away.”
“What exactly did I run away from?” she asked. “Was it your perpetual childhood or your inability to bathe?”
“No,” his voice became very low, “you ran away from the only person who will love you for who you are, not who you think you want to be.”
She stood still. In the distance, she heard laughter and the low engine of a semi truck. His face was completely emotionless as he stared at her, as if he had been planning this moment for a long time. She wildly thought that he must have practiced before the mirror to achieve such solemnity, for he used to laugh inappropriately in tense situations.
“I ran away,” she said carefully, “from an overgrown child who would never stop chasing pipedreams to act like a grown up.”
“And I got away from a shallow pipedream who pretended to be whatever she had to be to earn her MRS degree before graduation,” he replied. “Tell me, are you happy now, or are you still faking it?”
“I don’t know why I came here,” she whispered. She threw her cigarette to the ground and watched it glow in the darkness. She hated smoke. She hated what it did to her teeth and how she always smelled like burned coffee after a cigarette. She hated the way it polluted the air and made things that were once beautiful shrivel under its influence.
“You came here,” he started. His voice was even, but his hands shook madly. Years of emotion poured through him as he addressed her coldly. “You came here to see what your life could have been. I’ll tell you what it could have been. I would have married you and done anything to make you happy. I would have quit music and done something practical. I would have left the city, left my family, left everything behind for you. I would have done anything. And you didn’t let me.”
“You would have done anything.” She rolled the words about on her tongue, tasting them and trying them on. They were words she had heard before, but they now took on new meaning. “You would have done anything, left anything, become anything. And you would have been miserable. We both would.”
“And I’m not miserable now?”
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
She moved away from the railing, crushing the abandoned cigarette beneath her heel. She crossed the lot and he followed, stopping just short of her car. She started the engine and rolled down the window, gazing at him one last time.
“We would have been happy,” he said softly, a sad smile playing on his lips. He considered her carefully, taking in the paleness of her skin and the few grey hairs mixing with her blonde. Her lipstick had long faded, leaving only her thin, cracked lips and the moonlight cast shadows upon her face that showed the toll the years had taken on her. Still, she was beautiful, and his heart soared when their eyes met, though somewhere deep he knew it was for the last time.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she pleaded, hurt to see the pain upon his face.
“Like what?” he asked, as if he did not already know.
“Like you want to kiss me.” She put the car in gear and backed up, leaving him to be a reflection in her rearview mirror.
“Can you blame me?” he replied, but she was already gone.
As the city fell behind her, the reality of her life lay ahead. Every mile that spanned between her and the love she left behind brought new relief, and by the time she reached her home she could almost breathe again.
She tiptoed across the darkened halls, past the fine furniture and family portraits, up several stairs and into the safety of her bedroom. Her heels were soon discarded on the floor and she slipped into bed, pulling the linens up around her and consenting to fall restlessly into sleep.
In his slumber, her husband turned to wrap himself around her, placing a tender kiss upon her cheek. “I missed you,” he mumbled, his speech muffled by sleep.
“I missed you too,” she replied, settling into his embrace. “I’m glad to be home.”
The blocks stretched out before her as she headed toward her car. The streets were full of people, but she seemed to see through them, caring only for her destination. She did not know where she was going after she reached her destination, but it suddenly became extremely important that she reach it with haste. The parking garage came into view after several hurried moments. She climbed what seemed to be a hundred stairs before finally reaching the upper level.
On the horizon, buildings grew from the ground, great vines and weeds breaking through the concrete to form the skyline, a breathtaking sight that she had never before been eager to leave behind. She lived and breathed for the city, for the bustle and the crisp air. She dreamed of monumental street signs and faceless crowds, glamour and power and all the rest. She dreamed of dreams long left abandoned.
He leaned casually against the railing at the side of the garage, as if the industrial wires separating him from sure death were a suitable replacement for caution. With a ragged mane of curly hair, a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, he was a sight to behold. His gentle smile could almost convince her that everything was okay.
“You look good,” he said, nodding to her platform heels and low top. She didn’t even dream of dressing like that anymore.
“Got a light?” she replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her bra.
“Classy as ever, love,” he said, lighting her cigarette with his own.
“I do what I can.” She breathed in deeply, appreciating the tender way the smoke tickled her throat and lungs, teasing her with release. “How have you been?”
“Dreadful at best, wretched at worst.” She nodded, leaning against the railing next to him. She refused to make eye contact. “You?”
“Wretched at best,” she replied. From the corner of her eye, she took a short look at him. He hadn’t shaved in days and looked dreadfully thin. Smoke poured from his mouth when he spoke and his eyes were rimmed with black.
“You get what you deserve, I guess.”
She turned her head, staring directly at him. “What,” she spat, “is that supposed to mean?”
“Look,” he turned his body to face her, casting his cigarette aside, “you had your problems and I had mine, but the difference is that I faced mine and you ran away.”
“What exactly did I run away from?” she asked. “Was it your perpetual childhood or your inability to bathe?”
“No,” his voice became very low, “you ran away from the only person who will love you for who you are, not who you think you want to be.”
She stood still. In the distance, she heard laughter and the low engine of a semi truck. His face was completely emotionless as he stared at her, as if he had been planning this moment for a long time. She wildly thought that he must have practiced before the mirror to achieve such solemnity, for he used to laugh inappropriately in tense situations.
“I ran away,” she said carefully, “from an overgrown child who would never stop chasing pipedreams to act like a grown up.”
“And I got away from a shallow pipedream who pretended to be whatever she had to be to earn her MRS degree before graduation,” he replied. “Tell me, are you happy now, or are you still faking it?”
“I don’t know why I came here,” she whispered. She threw her cigarette to the ground and watched it glow in the darkness. She hated smoke. She hated what it did to her teeth and how she always smelled like burned coffee after a cigarette. She hated the way it polluted the air and made things that were once beautiful shrivel under its influence.
“You came here,” he started. His voice was even, but his hands shook madly. Years of emotion poured through him as he addressed her coldly. “You came here to see what your life could have been. I’ll tell you what it could have been. I would have married you and done anything to make you happy. I would have quit music and done something practical. I would have left the city, left my family, left everything behind for you. I would have done anything. And you didn’t let me.”
“You would have done anything.” She rolled the words about on her tongue, tasting them and trying them on. They were words she had heard before, but they now took on new meaning. “You would have done anything, left anything, become anything. And you would have been miserable. We both would.”
“And I’m not miserable now?”
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
She moved away from the railing, crushing the abandoned cigarette beneath her heel. She crossed the lot and he followed, stopping just short of her car. She started the engine and rolled down the window, gazing at him one last time.
“We would have been happy,” he said softly, a sad smile playing on his lips. He considered her carefully, taking in the paleness of her skin and the few grey hairs mixing with her blonde. Her lipstick had long faded, leaving only her thin, cracked lips and the moonlight cast shadows upon her face that showed the toll the years had taken on her. Still, she was beautiful, and his heart soared when their eyes met, though somewhere deep he knew it was for the last time.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she pleaded, hurt to see the pain upon his face.
“Like what?” he asked, as if he did not already know.
“Like you want to kiss me.” She put the car in gear and backed up, leaving him to be a reflection in her rearview mirror.
“Can you blame me?” he replied, but she was already gone.
As the city fell behind her, the reality of her life lay ahead. Every mile that spanned between her and the love she left behind brought new relief, and by the time she reached her home she could almost breathe again.
She tiptoed across the darkened halls, past the fine furniture and family portraits, up several stairs and into the safety of her bedroom. Her heels were soon discarded on the floor and she slipped into bed, pulling the linens up around her and consenting to fall restlessly into sleep.
In his slumber, her husband turned to wrap himself around her, placing a tender kiss upon her cheek. “I missed you,” he mumbled, his speech muffled by sleep.
“I missed you too,” she replied, settling into his embrace. “I’m glad to be home.”
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Morning
Darling, I hate to wake you
But I just need to say
I love the way you dream
The way you meet the day
Dear, I hate to wake you
But truly, we must go
There are trains to catch
And time to waste
Lives to live
And dreams to Chase
Songs to write
And ways to be
Beauty to find
And love to leave
Love, I hate to wake you
But day has come too fast
The stars forever fading
Too beautiful to last
Darling, I hate to wake you
But I simply need to say
I love you more, and more again
With every passing day
But I just need to say
I love the way you dream
The way you meet the day
Dear, I hate to wake you
But truly, we must go
There are trains to catch
And time to waste
Lives to live
And dreams to Chase
Songs to write
And ways to be
Beauty to find
And love to leave
Love, I hate to wake you
But day has come too fast
The stars forever fading
Too beautiful to last
Darling, I hate to wake you
But I simply need to say
I love you more, and more again
With every passing day
Sunday, January 2, 2011
"Hominem, memento te."
A lot of people seek religious, mainly Bible where I'm from, quotes to guide and inspire them. Words are powerful things, and so are religions. Personally, I have seen beauty and hatred sparked from both, and my experiences have led to my prolonged religious conflict both internally and externally.
I was never told by my parents what to believe. Though I was baptized in the Catholic church and my earlier religious views were notably based in Catholicism, I never believed it. When my parents took me to various Baptist and Nondenominational Christian churches as I grew older and I eventually attended a Lutheran church briefly when asked by a friend, I never felt comfortable. I didn't know what I believed, but I knew subconsciously that I didn't believe in Christianity.
I think I started to realize that I just wasn't Christian in ninth Honors Ancient History. We were studying the origins of Christianity and the thought occurred to me: "What if Jesus was just a bored teenager that made it all up?"
While I am fairly certain that the origins of such a major world religion could not be so simple, the thought stayed with me, and slowly grew into doubt, and then the realization almost two years later that I simply was not Christian.
As I grew to understand my beliefs, I gave myself many titles. First Agnostic, and then briefly Atheist at a time when I was particularly adverse to religion, and then back to Agnostic. However, until a few months ago, I was scared to say exactly what I believe, and until very recently, I didn't feel that what I am is okay and the labels were unnecessary.
I can say that I have been genuinely hurt because of my religious beliefs. I have lost a handful of relationships, engaged in heated arguments with my parents, defended myself to classmates, felt sadness, longing, rage, and shame because of what I believe. Or, rather, what I don't.
I used to hope that religious topics would simply not come up so I would not have to talk about my views. I would meekly accept the Bibles that people presented to me while I worked in the grocery store (yeah, they do that), pretend not to be home when Jehovah's Witnesses came to the door, and even lie when people asked me where I attended church so not to stir up any controversy. It was not that I wasn't strong in my convictions, but rather that I did not expect acceptance for my beliefs and did not wish to have to defend them.
Now, I've realized that I should never have to defend them. If people are going to judge me because of what I believe, I will put them in the same category as the racists and sexists and refuse to associate with them. I am more than my religious beliefs. I am more than what I do on Sunday morning. I am a person, and my religious views are only a small part of the whole. What I am is fine. If the Creator was personally offended with the way I was living my life, I would have already been struck down by lightening.
Well, I'm still here. I must be doing something right.
I should not be ashamed to declare my beliefs. If people can come to my doorstep asking to share their faith, if my obnoxious manager can say "Merry Christmas" over the intercom, if religiously based groups can speak in my school, if this is truly a country based on freedom of religion (and it is, I wrote a paper on it), then I should be free to declare my beliefs without need to justify them. So I will:
I am not Christian. I am not Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, or anything else, and that is okay.
I believe in openness of heart and mind. I believe that no one religion is right, but they all have some Truth and something to offer. I believe there is a God and an afterlife. I believe in Fate. I believe in happiness. I believe in love. I believe that I can achieve enlightenment and eternal bliss from simply being the best person I can be and practicing compassion at every opportunity. This is what I believe, and this is what works for me.
To those who believe that their religion is right for you, proceed. If you don't stand for something you will fall for anything. Faith is a beautiful thing that is often envied by those without it, believe me. Share what you believe and stick firmly to it, but only if in return you have an open mind and are brave enough to examine why believe what you do. Sometimes, being told something by our parents is not enough. Parents have the right to share their religion with their children, but children also have the right to explore other faiths and decide what we believe. Parents have more influence than anyone upon their children, but we must remember that in the end, we all end up ultimately alone, and the grave would be an awful place to begin to wonder why you believe what you do.
However, to those who believe that their religion is the only way to Truth, I beseech you to have an open mind. Religion is about being in touch with your beliefs and spirituality and having an individual relationship with God. And to those who are quick to judge the Muslim woman in a headscarf, the Wiccan wearing a pentagram, the Catholic carrying rosary beads, or the quiet Atheist who has never done a thing to offend you but not believing in your God, I beg you remember that you are not God. You are man, and you have no divine right to judge. Every person you encounter has something unique to offer and a reason for being in your life, but if you deny them the opportunity to offer it because of difference in beliefs, you can never grow spiritually.
We are all one. Every single person, regardless of age, gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, or football team allegiance bleeds red. I have no authority to speak of what any Creator wanted or planned for humanity, but I feel confident that He/She would grieve to see His/Her children fighting, killing, and isolating one another over the best way to worship. Ultimately, we don't know. We have no solid answers, so why divide ourselves?
-Helen Keller
Today, I burned my past. Literally. I attended a service at the Westside Unitarian Universalist Church. (My computer insists that 'universalist' is not a word, but I promise I didn't make it up.) This was only the second time I attended, but I felt very accepted and responded well to the message. I think this will be the place or worship for me, but I'm not making any commitments yet.
A longtime member led the service. The theme of the day was a letting go. He spoke about embracing the future and moving on from past regrets. He spoke for about twenty minutes, using poetry and Buddhist-based texts as well as his own words to get the point across. When he was done, he told everyone to get a piece of paper and pencil.
He told us to write down our regrets of 2010, the things we wished we'd done, the things we wanted to forget, and what we wished to move on from. Then, one by one, we went to the altar and dropped our paper into a small fire in an urn, symbolically erasing our regrets and vowing to move on. It was strangely therapeutic, and now I feel like I will be able to move on from my list of regrets.
I came out of the service today feeling very happy. I'm sad to admit that I have not felt very happy in quite some time. However, the incredibly welcoming community at WUUC and the prospect of a clean slate cheered me. Maybe that's the power of religion. Maybe having a place where you are welcome, accepted, and inspired to be your personal best is more healing than the touch of any prophet or messiah. Maybe if everyone could realize this monumental power of acceptance and togetherness, the world would be a better place. Maybe.
-U2, "One"
Happy New Year
May you go in peace
Thursday, December 30, 2010
The True Shame
With a deep breath, she pulled on her coat and tiptoed out of the cozy warmth of her home and into the icy night. There he stood, nonchalant as ever, leaning against his car as if nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong, not really. Or perhaps there was just too much to put into words.
He looked up as her footsteps drew nearer and cast his cigarette aside. His smoking was a disgusting habit and she had previously refused to tolerate it, but she hardly had the right to chastise him now.
She stopped a few feet from him and looked him over. He was the same, more or less. He looked as if he had been working out – preparing himself for the dating scene, no doubt. He needed a haircut, as per usual, but he was just as lovely as ever. She had been told in the past that others did not find him attractive, but she always had. She saw the beauty in him. He had a kind soul, a great desire to do good, and an enchanting smile. His laugh used to ring in her ears for hours after they’d parted, along with his low, melodic voice. She always told him what a shame it was he was killing his voice with smoke.
He stood up straight and looked her in the eye. She took a step toward him but then jumped back, startled by her actions.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. After only hearing his voice in her head for months, it was an odd sensation to hear it in real life. She realized with a pang of disappointment that she had imagined it incorrectly. It was much lower than she remembered, and much smoother.
“Nothing, I –“ she stopped, unable to articulate what had caused her to step back. Habit had tried to force her into his arms, but logic had stopped her. She shuffled her feet. “I was going to hug you,” she admitted, “but I wasn’t sure if I should.”
“You can hug me,” he replied, a small smile playing on his lips. Everything was always a joke to him, even when she felt she could not smile to save her life.
“I don’t know if I want to,” she said in a small voice. She always felt very small when she was with him. Something about him took away not only her breath, but her voice. In better times, she had spoken to him through actions, through a reassuring hand or a simple smile. She had shown her love by making him her first priority, by caring so deeply for his happiness that she would do anything to preserve it. She did not realize until it was much too late that words were equally important.
“Okay.” He patted his pocket, nervously locating his cigarettes. “What did you want to talk about?”
What didn’t she want to talk about? It had been a year since she had seen him; she wanted to talk about what had changed, what had stayed the same, his family, his life. She wanted to know if his dreams had changed, if they were as spectacular as ever. She wanted to know when exactly he planned to take the world by storm.
“I, I wanted to tell you something,” she stuttered, staring at the hole in his jeans and the cancer between his fingers.
“Well,” he said, “not to be rude, but could you spit it out? I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He chuckled, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Everything she had planned to say, the passionate words that burned inside her dimmed, and she lost her voice. “I just missed you,” she murmured.
“You just missed me,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” she replied lamely.
“Look, I don’t want to be a jerk, but you could have just texted me.”
“After all we’ve been through? That deserves a phone call at the very least,” she joked humorlessly.
“And yet I got an email begging me to come over,” he scoffed, clearly becoming frustrated. “What is this all about?”
“I want to make things right.”
“There is nothing to make right,” he said. His forced smile showed the fault lines in his calm façade.
“Don’t say that,” she begged. Her voice cracked under the strain of emotion. “Don’t say there’s nothing left between us.”
“There’s not.”
“How...How can you say that?”
“Look, it’s been a year. I’ve moved on, you should too.”
His words hung between them for a long moment. This was not how she anticipated the conversation would go. She did not understand how he couldn’t care when she still did so much.
“I cried for a month after we broke up.” Her voice began a whisper, but was growing higher and louder with every word, disturbing the silence of the night. “I would wake up in the middle of the night to check if you’d called, stay up way too late hoping you’d change your mind and talk to me. If you had seen me the day after it happened you would have felt horrible. You would have taken me back. If there was nothing between us, I wouldn’t have been so miserable without you.”
“And whose fault is that?” he snapped. His stare was unrelenting and something inside her broke. Her knees felt weak and grief and guilt raced to suffocate her.
She could not meet his eyes. She bit down on her bottom lip hard to keep herself from crying out.
“It was mine.”
“It was yours,” he replied slowly, nodding his head. “It was your fault. Nothing had to change, nothing had to end. You killed it.”
So she had.
“I had to,” she breathed. Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it and the salty blood sat unpleasantly on her tongue.
He had been in the process of lighting a new cigarette when she spoke. The match between his fingers stayed quite still and burned down to his fingertips as he stared at her.
“You had to?” He spat. He stood up straight, his cigarette still dangling between his lips, and towered over her. “You had to commit murder?”
“There was no murder,” she whispered. Salty tears now escaped her eyes and nearly froze upon her cheeks.
“What would you call it, then?”
“A mistake. A mistake that we made and I took care of. It’s over! It’s all in the past. Why can’t we leave it there?”
"Because I loved you," he said bitterly, looking down on her. "Because I would have taken care of things and you didn't give me the chance."
"I loved you, too!" she insisted.
"No. You didn't."
"You have no right to say that." still crying, she advanced toward him, pointing a shaking finger into his chest. "I loved you. You have no idea how much."
"If that was true," he replied, his voice quivering slightly, "you wouldn't have done it."
"I did it to protect you! I wasn't about to let you throw your life away. You deserve more than that."
"And you?" he asked. "Don't you deserve better?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're going to hell for what you did. And so am I for not stopping you."
"I don't believe in hell," she whispered.
With that, she turned on her heel, leaving him standing alone with his convictions.
On her way back to the house, she stepped on the cigarette he had earlier cast aside, crushing the tiny ember beneath her foot. How curious that something could so easily be snuffed out.
She entered the house and locked the door. Only once inside did she realize how terribly cold she was, for she could not stop herself from shaking for several minutes.
Once composed, she tiptoed quietly to her bedroom. With great care to remain silent, she removed her coat and shoes and slipped beneath the covers. There, silence and loneliness overwhelmed her and she found herself wracked with sobs. They came in waves of pain and desperation as she tucked her head beneath the pillows to muffle the sound. However, her efforts were ultimately in vain, and she soon found her own cries echoed in the dark.
Forced by nature, she let go of her grievances and rose to tend to the cries. They emanated from the adjacent bedroom, where her smallest and greatest grievance wailed.
In a practiced motion she drew the child into her arms. At once, its complaints ceased; it cried only for being awoken from its dreams without a smile to wake up to.
It was a lovely child, with a healthy complexion and dark chocolate eyes. She had overheard the nurses in the hospital lamenting the shame that such a handsome child should be a bastard.
The true shame was that it needn't be a bastard, that its mother was simply more in love with its father than with the child itself. The true shame was that she had chosen to lie so that its father could follow his dreams, all while she sealed her own dreams neatly inside a little box, never to be opened again.
The true shame was that she had sacrificed her happiness for his, only to find that he was scarcely happy at all.
He believed himself hell bound, an eternal sinner. How glad he would be when he met his maker and discovered that his only sin was ignorance, that he would be allowed to live in eternal joy. Perhaps she would meet him there, and his gratitude for being saved from hellfire would inspire him to forgive.
Perhaps something higher would forgive her trespasses, and she would eventually be able to forgive herself.
Love is not rational, she thought as she returned to bed and rocked her child to sleep. Life is not kind to those who love and those who love are not always loved in return. Love makes people do senseless things and bring great pain upon themselves.
And sometimes, those who are fools for love are doomed to carry their great pain for all of their lives, quietly mourning all that never was and all could never be.
End.
He looked up as her footsteps drew nearer and cast his cigarette aside. His smoking was a disgusting habit and she had previously refused to tolerate it, but she hardly had the right to chastise him now.
She stopped a few feet from him and looked him over. He was the same, more or less. He looked as if he had been working out – preparing himself for the dating scene, no doubt. He needed a haircut, as per usual, but he was just as lovely as ever. She had been told in the past that others did not find him attractive, but she always had. She saw the beauty in him. He had a kind soul, a great desire to do good, and an enchanting smile. His laugh used to ring in her ears for hours after they’d parted, along with his low, melodic voice. She always told him what a shame it was he was killing his voice with smoke.
He stood up straight and looked her in the eye. She took a step toward him but then jumped back, startled by her actions.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. After only hearing his voice in her head for months, it was an odd sensation to hear it in real life. She realized with a pang of disappointment that she had imagined it incorrectly. It was much lower than she remembered, and much smoother.
“Nothing, I –“ she stopped, unable to articulate what had caused her to step back. Habit had tried to force her into his arms, but logic had stopped her. She shuffled her feet. “I was going to hug you,” she admitted, “but I wasn’t sure if I should.”
“You can hug me,” he replied, a small smile playing on his lips. Everything was always a joke to him, even when she felt she could not smile to save her life.
“I don’t know if I want to,” she said in a small voice. She always felt very small when she was with him. Something about him took away not only her breath, but her voice. In better times, she had spoken to him through actions, through a reassuring hand or a simple smile. She had shown her love by making him her first priority, by caring so deeply for his happiness that she would do anything to preserve it. She did not realize until it was much too late that words were equally important.
“Okay.” He patted his pocket, nervously locating his cigarettes. “What did you want to talk about?”
What didn’t she want to talk about? It had been a year since she had seen him; she wanted to talk about what had changed, what had stayed the same, his family, his life. She wanted to know if his dreams had changed, if they were as spectacular as ever. She wanted to know when exactly he planned to take the world by storm.
“I, I wanted to tell you something,” she stuttered, staring at the hole in his jeans and the cancer between his fingers.
“Well,” he said, “not to be rude, but could you spit it out? I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He chuckled, taking a long drag from his cigarette.
Everything she had planned to say, the passionate words that burned inside her dimmed, and she lost her voice. “I just missed you,” she murmured.
“You just missed me,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” she replied lamely.
“Look, I don’t want to be a jerk, but you could have just texted me.”
“After all we’ve been through? That deserves a phone call at the very least,” she joked humorlessly.
“And yet I got an email begging me to come over,” he scoffed, clearly becoming frustrated. “What is this all about?”
“I want to make things right.”
“There is nothing to make right,” he said. His forced smile showed the fault lines in his calm façade.
“Don’t say that,” she begged. Her voice cracked under the strain of emotion. “Don’t say there’s nothing left between us.”
“There’s not.”
“How...How can you say that?”
“Look, it’s been a year. I’ve moved on, you should too.”
His words hung between them for a long moment. This was not how she anticipated the conversation would go. She did not understand how he couldn’t care when she still did so much.
“I cried for a month after we broke up.” Her voice began a whisper, but was growing higher and louder with every word, disturbing the silence of the night. “I would wake up in the middle of the night to check if you’d called, stay up way too late hoping you’d change your mind and talk to me. If you had seen me the day after it happened you would have felt horrible. You would have taken me back. If there was nothing between us, I wouldn’t have been so miserable without you.”
“And whose fault is that?” he snapped. His stare was unrelenting and something inside her broke. Her knees felt weak and grief and guilt raced to suffocate her.
She could not meet his eyes. She bit down on her bottom lip hard to keep herself from crying out.
“It was mine.”
“It was yours,” he replied slowly, nodding his head. “It was your fault. Nothing had to change, nothing had to end. You killed it.”
So she had.
“I had to,” she breathed. Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it and the salty blood sat unpleasantly on her tongue.
He had been in the process of lighting a new cigarette when she spoke. The match between his fingers stayed quite still and burned down to his fingertips as he stared at her.
“You had to?” He spat. He stood up straight, his cigarette still dangling between his lips, and towered over her. “You had to commit murder?”
“There was no murder,” she whispered. Salty tears now escaped her eyes and nearly froze upon her cheeks.
“What would you call it, then?”
“A mistake. A mistake that we made and I took care of. It’s over! It’s all in the past. Why can’t we leave it there?”
"Because I loved you," he said bitterly, looking down on her. "Because I would have taken care of things and you didn't give me the chance."
"I loved you, too!" she insisted.
"No. You didn't."
"You have no right to say that." still crying, she advanced toward him, pointing a shaking finger into his chest. "I loved you. You have no idea how much."
"If that was true," he replied, his voice quivering slightly, "you wouldn't have done it."
"I did it to protect you! I wasn't about to let you throw your life away. You deserve more than that."
"And you?" he asked. "Don't you deserve better?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're going to hell for what you did. And so am I for not stopping you."
"I don't believe in hell," she whispered.
With that, she turned on her heel, leaving him standing alone with his convictions.
On her way back to the house, she stepped on the cigarette he had earlier cast aside, crushing the tiny ember beneath her foot. How curious that something could so easily be snuffed out.
She entered the house and locked the door. Only once inside did she realize how terribly cold she was, for she could not stop herself from shaking for several minutes.
Once composed, she tiptoed quietly to her bedroom. With great care to remain silent, she removed her coat and shoes and slipped beneath the covers. There, silence and loneliness overwhelmed her and she found herself wracked with sobs. They came in waves of pain and desperation as she tucked her head beneath the pillows to muffle the sound. However, her efforts were ultimately in vain, and she soon found her own cries echoed in the dark.
Forced by nature, she let go of her grievances and rose to tend to the cries. They emanated from the adjacent bedroom, where her smallest and greatest grievance wailed.
In a practiced motion she drew the child into her arms. At once, its complaints ceased; it cried only for being awoken from its dreams without a smile to wake up to.
It was a lovely child, with a healthy complexion and dark chocolate eyes. She had overheard the nurses in the hospital lamenting the shame that such a handsome child should be a bastard.
The true shame was that it needn't be a bastard, that its mother was simply more in love with its father than with the child itself. The true shame was that she had chosen to lie so that its father could follow his dreams, all while she sealed her own dreams neatly inside a little box, never to be opened again.
The true shame was that she had sacrificed her happiness for his, only to find that he was scarcely happy at all.
He believed himself hell bound, an eternal sinner. How glad he would be when he met his maker and discovered that his only sin was ignorance, that he would be allowed to live in eternal joy. Perhaps she would meet him there, and his gratitude for being saved from hellfire would inspire him to forgive.
Perhaps something higher would forgive her trespasses, and she would eventually be able to forgive herself.
Love is not rational, she thought as she returned to bed and rocked her child to sleep. Life is not kind to those who love and those who love are not always loved in return. Love makes people do senseless things and bring great pain upon themselves.
And sometimes, those who are fools for love are doomed to carry their great pain for all of their lives, quietly mourning all that never was and all could never be.
End.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Fall of the Concubine
They were just two attractive white kids, roaming the ghetto for danger and prostitutes. They had no intention of stopping or employing the whores they hunted, for that would hardly be a respectable pastime. They simply sought to find adventure in their beige, suburban lives. Unafflicted by consequence, they traveled through the slums, pointing out beggars and drunkards and the much-desired temptresses, with their platform heels and neon shorts.
And what should they do when they came upon a whore? They would but merely drive away, pointing in the mirror at her misfortune of circumstance. Affluent and promising, they never dreamed of stopping to engage, only to look upon the meek with undeniable superiority.
Perhaps, they proverbially wished to remind themselves of all they had, to bear witness to the poor, the weak, and the desperate in hopes of finding meaning. But alas, their goal was only to get high on prospective danger, as if viewing the lives of the ragged was enough to boost their street credibility, to make them feel alive.
With so many "what ifs" between them and so many nights spent searching the ceiling for the answers to life, they just needed to feel alive.
How funny that death would be the one to do the job.
They were two fools in love, or the modern version of it, unmoved by the plight of the layman, destined to be more than average in every endeavor. They feared authority only because they feared for their status. What would the neighbors say about the children caught on the bad side of town; had they caught infection, or worse, poverty, in the course of their travels? They would be social pariahs, cursed to a life of rejected invitations and snide remarks.
No, they were just there to look, not to touch and not to buy, but to see, to err on the side of danger, but with a solid layer of glass and arrogance to protect them from the beasts that lay inside.
How disgusted they must have felt when fate made the decision that they should have a close encounter of the whore kind.
With a dull thunk and a low moan, she fell. Fearing for his wheels and paint job, the male rushed from the car, bravely instructing his frail counterpart to stay behind and, under no circumstances, call the police. The consequences would be monumental.
With a quivering hand, he removed his lettered jacket and kneeled to check the pulse of his repulsive victim. Had he a compassionate mind, he may have recognized that, despite the difference in skin tone and class, the hooker's heart beat beneath her breast with no disparity to the way which his did beat
Alas, his considerations reached only the end of his nose and the tip of his only tool, and with disgust and effort, he moved the whore to the edge of the road to die.
The female companion, moved to near hysterics, waited loyally inside the vehicle. She sobbed, not for the crime they committed or for her companion's dishonorable acts, but for possibility. Should the whore die, there would be only a dead whore. Her blood would not be on the hands of her true killers, but on the cold sidewalk in an unimportant part of town.
However, should the whore live to see the morning, the pair would live in terror. Should she be intelligent enough, the whore could memorize the license plate number of the car that maimed her. She could go to the police with a description of her almost killers and the lettered jacket now resting on the hood of the car. Their lives would surely end when the whore made her move, and then who would become the royalty of the prom?
She could not allow such a travesty to transpire.
With swift movements, she extricated herself from the vehicle. In seconds, she was standing above the whore, who was quite still and faintly blue upon the pavement.
In the trained movement of a soccer star, she swiftly made a connection between her high heeled boot and the peasant's face. Again and again she kicked, until the pavement was warm with blood and retribution. Only when she her cheeks were red and her boots were stained with cheap makeup and brain matter did she feel lover's eyes upon her back.
She stopped immediately and coolly turned on her heel. Instead of seeking comfort in an embrace or reassurance in a word, she snarled at him. Her eyes were fierce with a lifetime of rage.
"Take me home now," she ordered, avoiding his gaze as she tidied her hair, "and don't look at me that way. The cunt got what she deserved. She made a mess of my shoes."
And what should they do when they came upon a whore? They would but merely drive away, pointing in the mirror at her misfortune of circumstance. Affluent and promising, they never dreamed of stopping to engage, only to look upon the meek with undeniable superiority.
Perhaps, they proverbially wished to remind themselves of all they had, to bear witness to the poor, the weak, and the desperate in hopes of finding meaning. But alas, their goal was only to get high on prospective danger, as if viewing the lives of the ragged was enough to boost their street credibility, to make them feel alive.
With so many "what ifs" between them and so many nights spent searching the ceiling for the answers to life, they just needed to feel alive.
How funny that death would be the one to do the job.
They were two fools in love, or the modern version of it, unmoved by the plight of the layman, destined to be more than average in every endeavor. They feared authority only because they feared for their status. What would the neighbors say about the children caught on the bad side of town; had they caught infection, or worse, poverty, in the course of their travels? They would be social pariahs, cursed to a life of rejected invitations and snide remarks.
No, they were just there to look, not to touch and not to buy, but to see, to err on the side of danger, but with a solid layer of glass and arrogance to protect them from the beasts that lay inside.
How disgusted they must have felt when fate made the decision that they should have a close encounter of the whore kind.
With a dull thunk and a low moan, she fell. Fearing for his wheels and paint job, the male rushed from the car, bravely instructing his frail counterpart to stay behind and, under no circumstances, call the police. The consequences would be monumental.
With a quivering hand, he removed his lettered jacket and kneeled to check the pulse of his repulsive victim. Had he a compassionate mind, he may have recognized that, despite the difference in skin tone and class, the hooker's heart beat beneath her breast with no disparity to the way which his did beat
Alas, his considerations reached only the end of his nose and the tip of his only tool, and with disgust and effort, he moved the whore to the edge of the road to die.
The female companion, moved to near hysterics, waited loyally inside the vehicle. She sobbed, not for the crime they committed or for her companion's dishonorable acts, but for possibility. Should the whore die, there would be only a dead whore. Her blood would not be on the hands of her true killers, but on the cold sidewalk in an unimportant part of town.
However, should the whore live to see the morning, the pair would live in terror. Should she be intelligent enough, the whore could memorize the license plate number of the car that maimed her. She could go to the police with a description of her almost killers and the lettered jacket now resting on the hood of the car. Their lives would surely end when the whore made her move, and then who would become the royalty of the prom?
She could not allow such a travesty to transpire.
With swift movements, she extricated herself from the vehicle. In seconds, she was standing above the whore, who was quite still and faintly blue upon the pavement.
In the trained movement of a soccer star, she swiftly made a connection between her high heeled boot and the peasant's face. Again and again she kicked, until the pavement was warm with blood and retribution. Only when she her cheeks were red and her boots were stained with cheap makeup and brain matter did she feel lover's eyes upon her back.
She stopped immediately and coolly turned on her heel. Instead of seeking comfort in an embrace or reassurance in a word, she snarled at him. Her eyes were fierce with a lifetime of rage.
"Take me home now," she ordered, avoiding his gaze as she tidied her hair, "and don't look at me that way. The cunt got what she deserved. She made a mess of my shoes."
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