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Apr. 5th, 2004
fear. the pain in the world comes down to fear...
no... scars. It's scars. Old pain, a forever score in the skin, reminder of the blade that made it.
blame.
it's blame. because we want to have someone answer for the fear, for the scars, for the pain. it was supposed to have been taken away/prevented by those assigned to that duty. but it happened anyway. blame... and when they don't accept it, don't admit it, don't agree. blame goes somewhere else. answer for it. admit it. fix it. fill in the score in the skin with your own blood. give me your skin, your soul that I can patch mine. take parts of you to mend parts of me, because you're to blame. and the circle be unbroken by and by lord. seasons go round and roud painted ponies trample up and down.
justice. never fills the score. never heals. kill a brain cell or two and forget, maybe. for a while. but empty space remains where flesh and soul once was. and though we don't remember what used to fill it we feel the empty space anyway. should we just accept the emptiness? embrace it? know that it's there and it's okay. it's okay for the space to be there. okay for there to be a missing piece, whatever piece it was, now a memory or memory of a memory.
it's okay to not be whole. to be covered in the pits and valleys and black, gnawing holes from the shrapnel. take what others freely give, when they have overfilled spaces. plaster their glut on the frayed edges, even if it doesn't quite seal them. but stealing... making other holes, making them pay. making them patch. only creates more space. more empty. more needs to fill, and more knives carving skin and soul away to fill it.
even a void takes up space, and that's real. it makes us real. it's life, and not a reasonable facsimile thereof. the earth's abundance has nourishment for us. even if we have more spaces than it can fill. but we exist around those spaces. we exist. we exist. we exist. and we always will.
no... scars. It's scars. Old pain, a forever score in the skin, reminder of the blade that made it.
blame.
it's blame. because we want to have someone answer for the fear, for the scars, for the pain. it was supposed to have been taken away/prevented by those assigned to that duty. but it happened anyway. blame... and when they don't accept it, don't admit it, don't agree. blame goes somewhere else. answer for it. admit it. fix it. fill in the score in the skin with your own blood. give me your skin, your soul that I can patch mine. take parts of you to mend parts of me, because you're to blame. and the circle be unbroken by and by lord. seasons go round and roud painted ponies trample up and down.
justice. never fills the score. never heals. kill a brain cell or two and forget, maybe. for a while. but empty space remains where flesh and soul once was. and though we don't remember what used to fill it we feel the empty space anyway. should we just accept the emptiness? embrace it? know that it's there and it's okay. it's okay for the space to be there. okay for there to be a missing piece, whatever piece it was, now a memory or memory of a memory.
it's okay to not be whole. to be covered in the pits and valleys and black, gnawing holes from the shrapnel. take what others freely give, when they have overfilled spaces. plaster their glut on the frayed edges, even if it doesn't quite seal them. but stealing... making other holes, making them pay. making them patch. only creates more space. more empty. more needs to fill, and more knives carving skin and soul away to fill it.
even a void takes up space, and that's real. it makes us real. it's life, and not a reasonable facsimile thereof. the earth's abundance has nourishment for us. even if we have more spaces than it can fill. but we exist around those spaces. we exist. we exist. we exist. and we always will.
