Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Pressure makes a diamond, right?

What if all of this beauty is wasted? Wasted on those unavailable;  unwilling;  unworthy; wasted on saving others; wasted on waiting for the one for whom it's no longer wasted?

Only so long do I want to be admired by those I don't admire or are an apparition of admiration I hear about in passing or past tense.

I used to wonder - when it all ends, will I miss it; the catcalls; the attention. I used to want the stories of dating and infatuation and intrigue. And I got them indeed. But often now I feel like I just sit by wondering how others can so often and quickly find lust, infatuation and (what they think as) love - and I wait. Calmly waiting. Pushing against it. Mostly apprehensive. Scared. Unwilling.

I'm here now, but for wrong reasons, I wonder. I feel as though I spend my time saving others; helping them; pushing them in the right direction - my beauty both outside and in, so easily mistaken for what some think could be love. Or hope; a small light in their moment of darkness. But soon it becomes a weight - one in which I bear all my own, all too often. And I begin to wonder then, when it's my turn to be saved.  But am I willing now to love? Or just to lighten the load? As is most things in life, I find my disposition, my laughter, my free will, my independence, my lust for life, and my lure, to be both a blessing and a curse. I am willing to help, but I am not the solution.

We must learn - first and foremost - how to save ourselves. I need to spread the word. There are no saviors. No angels of Earth. And a love of another only works if you love alone first.

*[an hour passes]*

Each person is their own piece of coal. I am not a glimmer of hope. Everyone gets to keep hold of their own damn shovels; find your own way outta the mine.

[How's that for an hour's difference?]

1 comment:

Arnold Greg said...

Hello mate great bloog post