Time
Regardless of what faith we are rooted in or ascribe to, we as human beings, in all of our selfishness, pride, fallibility, bitterness, anger, hatred, and complexity, are beautiful.
Not because we're [im]perfect. Not because we've got more nerves and cells and strands of DNA than we can fully comprehend or realize. Not [necessarily] because we've been created or exist or breathe.
But because each of us has a story. A sad, tragic, twisted, or uplifting story-- it doesn't matter. But the fact that each of us has one is where our beauty lies.
The kid abused. The abuser. The outsider. The ringleader. The nobody. The somebody. The everybody.
We all have our parts, as Shakespeare so deftly wrote, on this stage, but behind each existence lies a tiny sliver of the world's history. No one will ever see grass the way you or I do. No one will ever see the moon the way you or I do. No one will ever feel, drink, or hear the silence of water the way you or I do. The taste of an orange. The cool of the night. The sultriness of jasmine, the fragrance of spring.
The teenager who's only concerned with popularity still holds such conviction in their belief that they are willing to create a rift between a parentally-fed identity with what they desire to fit in with people they subconsciously know will be gone in about 5 or 6 years.
The child molester that lives on the corner of the street and struggles with their desires every day, unsure whether to indulge or abstain, lies uncomfortably in the same boat with us in that we all share in this struggle. Yet, by deviance, their story simultaneously diverts drastically from ours as we struggle with a different type of desire, and they fall prey to the overwhelming urges even they do not understand.
The professional that goes to work every day and sits behind their cubical walls, words melting together into streams of white and black, no longer able to comprehend existence for the reality and breath it is, lost in mountains of deadlines and paperwork, still holds in the secret crevices of their diaphragm a scream so primal that to let it out would rend their very existence. Thus, they are muted by their existences, their stories fading as we imagine the simplicity and mundane nature of who they are.
A baby being born. The first breath of air you've ever taken for the rest of your life. Baptism. Skinny-dipping. Cool sheets. Freedom.
How desperately we take life for granted. All of our stories stored on the insides of us. Murderers. Serial killers. Rapists. Perverts. Family. Lovers. Friends. Workers. Servants. Givers. Takers.
People.
No matter how good or how bad. No matter religion, race, or creed. The beauty of a story, every story regardless how short, is what makes us beautiful.
Not because we're [im]perfect. Not because we've got more nerves and cells and strands of DNA than we can fully comprehend or realize. Not [necessarily] because we've been created or exist or breathe.
But because each of us has a story. A sad, tragic, twisted, or uplifting story-- it doesn't matter. But the fact that each of us has one is where our beauty lies.
The kid abused. The abuser. The outsider. The ringleader. The nobody. The somebody. The everybody.
We all have our parts, as Shakespeare so deftly wrote, on this stage, but behind each existence lies a tiny sliver of the world's history. No one will ever see grass the way you or I do. No one will ever see the moon the way you or I do. No one will ever feel, drink, or hear the silence of water the way you or I do. The taste of an orange. The cool of the night. The sultriness of jasmine, the fragrance of spring.
The teenager who's only concerned with popularity still holds such conviction in their belief that they are willing to create a rift between a parentally-fed identity with what they desire to fit in with people they subconsciously know will be gone in about 5 or 6 years.
The child molester that lives on the corner of the street and struggles with their desires every day, unsure whether to indulge or abstain, lies uncomfortably in the same boat with us in that we all share in this struggle. Yet, by deviance, their story simultaneously diverts drastically from ours as we struggle with a different type of desire, and they fall prey to the overwhelming urges even they do not understand.
The professional that goes to work every day and sits behind their cubical walls, words melting together into streams of white and black, no longer able to comprehend existence for the reality and breath it is, lost in mountains of deadlines and paperwork, still holds in the secret crevices of their diaphragm a scream so primal that to let it out would rend their very existence. Thus, they are muted by their existences, their stories fading as we imagine the simplicity and mundane nature of who they are.
A baby being born. The first breath of air you've ever taken for the rest of your life. Baptism. Skinny-dipping. Cool sheets. Freedom.
How desperately we take life for granted. All of our stories stored on the insides of us. Murderers. Serial killers. Rapists. Perverts. Family. Lovers. Friends. Workers. Servants. Givers. Takers.
People.
No matter how good or how bad. No matter religion, race, or creed. The beauty of a story, every story regardless how short, is what makes us beautiful.
posted by Kat at 12:01:00 AM
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