There is a hole in the world where you used to be. And you. And you and you.
As we get older everything begins to decompose. The pockmarks of those we loved, the creases of lessons learned, both good and bad...
Of course the scars, always the scars.
But scars are signs of healing and maybe you just don't have enough yet. Perhaps your sickness and health is yet to come and right now you are a blank canvas, awaiting your wounds.
I strain myself to understand but your words make no sense to me. Why? Why can't I understand you?? It's not for lack of trying, or desire, or research or meditation or any of the other things we fine intellectuals try to fill our holes with. Is it because you are great and special and unique in ways I can only hope to discover? Or is it because you are fragmented, broken, and (perish the thought!) simply not on the same page as I am?
Perhaps you have tunnel vision, and I am not at the end of your tunnel.
Perhaps you need convincing, and I am a terrible salesman.
Maybe you are a bad communicator and so am I. It's not us it's we.
So tonight begins the final vigil. I will wait and I will have faith and I will hope and I will pray and I will try, I always try god knows and may they write it on my gravestone--she tried harder and fought harder for the kind of love that makes death tremble. For she was born to be a soldier and that was her great downfall because how many soldiers truly taste victory? If we are lucky we survive to watch our red hot scars pale to white and know that next time we will be ever so slightly weaker because what doesn't kill you only kills you slowly. Every fight takes a piece away until you are almost certain there are no more pices left, no more chances, no more tries.
So let this be the final battle, as I have grown too old for crusades. The armor is heavy and the weapons are dull and all my scars are burning tonight.
These are the candles I light for you.
