...echo...
So I've joined in.
I've joined everyone else who needs to be heard, who can't stand the idea of being misunderstood but fear worse the idea of being totally honest.
I consider that a weakness. One could take that as an insult, but remember that I'm here too.
I was, until recently, totally comfortable with the fact that people didn't care what I think. I knew with total confidence that opinions were like all those signals of old radio and television shows, carrying their tragic ghosts into deep and empty space, serving the solitary purpose of making the sender feel a bit more important. I questioned and I poked and prodded and learned what I could, totally unconcerned at being questioned myself, because nobody else really listened. I was certain that others only faked intimacy, only pretended to listen in order to mimic some cosmic connection they had read about in a book, or seen in a movie, or perhaps conjured in a dream or hallucination. I was Adam, naked but without shame.
Eden is gone now. One day, someone amazing returned the favor and dug back, and their efforts were so admirable that I actually let my guard down. The only person who would find that truly remarkable is my former self. Moot point, he’s gone now.
The funny thing about exile has been this: I still don’t believe, but now I care. Now it bothers me. I would once have thought that opening up would be an inspiring experience, something that would carry on through everyone I would ever know or meet. I’ve been cynical on the inside for as long as I can remember, thinking how tragic it was to smile solely for the sake of others, and I would just pour all of that back into the act. It wasn’t an alternative to life; it was a way of life. Paradise was ignorance to the fact that in another life things might have been better.
So here I am. I’ve never had faith, so don’t take this as a sign of it, and that’s not the point, anyway. I guess the point is that giving up, that losing everything of any import, is not the end. Life would be a lot easier if such were the case, and in a way I wish it were. I don’t think before now that I’ve ever counted as an injustice the idea that I’m still around. But at the same time, I don’t think I have the right to make any real decisions for myself, because every time I try to, I just hurt my friends and family, and those I would count as more than either. So here I am.
What to expect from this? Nothing. Expect nothing from me, or you will be hurt. Neither a threat nor a promise, just a simple prophecy Maybe this will inspire something, or maybe it won’t. I don’t have hope, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel.
…
