Paths XVIII

  Sometimes there needs to be a path, to follow the shallows beside the deep, a meandering trail for the frail, the broken ones, to follow to a peak even if they crawl, even if they're slow to recognize the goal, as long as they become hale, at the end of the proverbial trail.

  Without the path, without the means to tell a tale, how could any of us be whole?

  Sometimes there is a means for one to cry, to allow the traumas of the past to die so that we may gain something greater than the stains that discolor us to the core, the pains and horror that bore into our very bones, breaking us, hurling us to the floor where we beg a greater being for nothing more, nothing more.

  Without the floor, without a burned out broken core, how could we know the deep dark recesses of an empty soul?

  It's a human thing to belong. It's inhumane to deprive one of a happy song, and cursed be those who chose to inflict the wrongs that inspire so so many sad sad songs. To fill symphonies full of sorrow, neglect and lifelong regrets that leave us alone.

  Without the songs, without the lines of songs that go back to wrongs, how can we learn to follow a different path and understand the aftermath of our blackened pasts and long long roads?

  Sometimes one comes along and touches our hollowed souls, rips apart our languishing hearts, fills the cavernous holes with hope. One who, like us, knows the scope of sorrow, knows that there is something beautiful, something whole  within us, then gives us the key, the words to fill that gaping hole with something more, something more.

  Without an encounter with that blessed soul, without the hopefully flows of words and notes that fill our empty bowls with sustenance and hope, how could the world continue on?