Mankind, riddled with unmerciful flaws, dents in the human spirit which cannot be mended or healed. Carrying forever the burden of this, our imperfect souls. Realising that goodness is only an intention. Bowing with humility before the uncorrupted spirit of the newborn child. Yearning to go back to where we all started from. All life long, working to shed the paralysing flaws, to return to that instant, a mere moment, at birth, when our souls were in fact, intact. Before the first cry was heard, the first breath was taken, the first innate thought entered our hearts. That single moment when from a wish a creature emerged.
But I am not selfless. I am not faithful. I am not patient. I am not forgiving. I am not loving. Enough. I am not humble. Enough. I am not sincere. Enough.
I forget to be grateful. Have I told you how nice it was to see you? And that those days will forever stay engraved? But then a moment comes and I am again reminded that only the moment is an accurate unit of measurement of life. That moment when I was happy. That moment when you were pleased. That moment when we were content with all that we had. That moment when we realised that we had everything. That moment all other moments are measured by.
If I am unable to relinquish the memory, could I at least get a moment of your sweet love? Half way through, I feel new and also trapped. Freed but irreversibly stuck. Left behind. I stand on the island where the boat has sailed a long time ago. I cannot catch sight even of its ant sized sail. My island’s comfortable and silent. With wise discretion stays mute during the doubtful and dark moments. And then they pass. Did we leave anyone behind? They’ve set sail, with only the traces of happiness to remember them by. Moments that are my life. Are your life.
I am not selfless and beg you to please remember me. Make note of the words I use and tell others to read, to listen, to mark these inconsequential ideas. Make up stories where happiness lingers and isn’t confined to just a moment. Tell tales of sorrow where a black crow lifts even the direst moment into a minute Armageddon.
I am not faithful and fall into the burning pit of doubt. Take all your strength and all your hope to run screaming from that place where the moment lingers for an eternity. Tell them that faith brings with it love and that love sees no difference between you and me. Tell them of the times you have loved and how it has made you better. Love filled the holes in your soul.
I am not patient and scurry towards a mirage. If I ask, why can you not give? If I stay, why do you go? Tell lies of the times you waited and received. Tell them your ideas of time so when I hurry, it seems normal.
I am not forgiving and throw all your faults at you, your fragile soul. I expect you to never break, to never cry. What if your faults are only flaws to me? Could it be that I can’t even see you? Holding a grudge and wanting to be loved completely cannot exist in the same moment. How can I separate the moments so that I have you and that I have love? Then it becomes apparent, blindingly obvious that:
I am not loving. Enough. I am not humble. Enough. I am not sincere. Enough.
