I write because I have to.
I write because by putting thoughts, feelings, and the unspeakable into
words, justice is served. People’s
stories are told. Honest hearts meet
honest hearts and the human condition is no longer a mystery, rather broken
down into fathomable pieces, relatable to every other breath breather on the
planet.
Why are we alive? It’s
a question that haunts me, often so heavily overshadowed by the shadow of death. As a race, we contend to continue running as
the generations before us, and although we persist, we cannot overcome the one
thing that so seemingly easily overcomes us: death.
I don’t mean to be dark or sober or give any undeserved place
to the thing most of us triumphantly avoid with every blink. But death illuminates life with a new wash of
light. This existence is fragile—as are our hearts, hands, skin, breath, passions, dreams. Nothing is certain, nothing is sure.
Except for hope.
Sometimes its promise is so fleeting. Other times it carries us on the wings of the
wind. But always hope remains, if
only in memory, if only in hope itself.
We don’t seek impressive eloquence. We seek a note that resonates with
the resounding chords of our souls. Pain that
intermingles with tears and love and hope. A light at the end of the tunnel. We ache for a better world—if not for
ourselves then at least for our children.
I go around and around, looking for a snapshot of
heaven. Wondering if everything I believe
of it is true. Heck, I wonder if
everything I believe of this world is true.
What is mortality, what is morality? What is right,
what is wrong? Is it actually as cut and
dried as we have always thought it was?
And if not, what a relief.
Not because we like breaking the rules, but because so many of the rules
are too futile to be followed. Stupid,
petty reasons to abandon wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve in exchange for
stuffing it back behind the mask that smiles unnervingly like rest of the human
army.
I take a deep breath.
Sometimes it is the only thing that anchors me to the reality of life,
of God. The still, quiet peace of the
morning, lingered over with a cup of coffee…it doesn’t take away the pain of
life, nor erase the sting of death, but the simplest of moments overcome the
complexities of humanity most thoroughly.
Because from there we can see farther, clearer. Because we cannot fight for life unless life
itself burns within us, burns for justice, burns into the darkness, burns away
the all-consuming pride and fear. And
FIGHT WE MUST.
Many days, months, years, even decades may pass before we
see the sculpture taking form—our blood, sweat, and tears finally making a dent
in the oppressive anvil of injustice.
And when it finally does,
it will have been worth it.
