Thursday, March 20, 2014

A Waste

There's this beautiful little girl on the bus with me. She's staring out the window. Her name is Hazel, to match her eyes. In her dainty earlobes, she wears elephant earrings. A pink gem glitters in the belly. Sometimes she looks so sad. And others simply contemplative.

She's sniffling. I guess she has a cold.

Her hair is long and brown. There is a Boston Terrier on her shirt. It has a blue moustache. In this very short ride she has offered water to someone and her seat to others. She's with a group. It's Spring Break - something us adults can't comprehend. A week off without responsability.

And I'm remember why I'm on the bus. On the mainland. On route to my sister. A death. A suicide. A person from our past has punched his own time card. More her past than mine. This little girl and the grim reason for my sudden trip collide and all I am thinking is how does it go so wrong.

All these children, vibrant and full of life, when does life mess them up? I'm sure some of them are already experiencing the cruel nature of life, how bitter she can be, how utterly depressing it can seem. Since this is an honest space, I can say we have all been messed up by life. Tested, optimists the world over say. We have all been tested. Sometimes I think we spend the first thirty years of our lives being messed up and the next thirty trying to clean it up, fix it and find ourselves.

Sometimes we can't find out way back. Sometimes we can't see what there is out beyond the forest of our doubts and fears. Sometimes we miss the truth of life. That it truly is what you make it and happiness comes to those who can see. But there are those who can't see past the cobwebs of their own thoughts. The ghosts in their own minds.

Even in my darkest days I've always wanted to be. To exist. To breathe that crips mountain air and sink my feet into the mud of life. I have always wanted to conqour my own demons and not let them win. Leaving is not an option, not by my own hand, because there is too much love to give. I know this sets me apart. And I know I will never understand. That it will always seem like such a waste.

And I am terrible in these moments. There are tears and laughter, painful honesty and regrets. I suppose I am grateful that I don't feel nothing.  That I care. And always will.

Life is a gift but not everyone gets the memo.

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