not my image
not my image

I am contemplating what it is to be the change. To be the miracle.

I am tired of feeling like – and being – a hypocrite. A traitor to myself and to what I believe. A traitor to my King. A traitor to the world, the broken world in need of change. In need of a miracle. The hours I waste. The stuff life is made of, like water through my fingers.

It is like the truth is there, in the center; quiet and constant and everlasting. The truth will not defend itself because it speaks for itself. The truth will not shout to drown out the cacophony of noisy lies because regardless of how loud the noise becomes, the truth will not flinch or shrink or decay or fall into ruin. We are the ones who choose to fill our minds with noise. To fill our souls with a false peace. To fill our hearts with empty love promises that go unfulfilled and cold embraces of statues that cannot come to life. With words that once meant something and now crumble like ancient scrolls no one ever reads anymore.

We drown out the screams. We have done so in the past and we do so now. The screams of people outside, and the screams of our own decaying selves. What have we become? What have we come to? Why do we not care about the fast fading light? Why do we not see the midnight hour? Why do we not protest the slow, torturous death we are witnessing? Are we asleep? Have we given up?

The fast fading light. A glowing ember in the dark. Who has breath to blow it back into existence, that fire we can create? Immensely gifted, wasting hours, hours, with a dying ember in the dark and breath to ignite the fiercesome flames. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.