Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Scars

The scars pocket the land over there, but on our side these scars are only seen underneath: in the pauses during conversations straying near them and the darkening faces. 


Elsewhere, where scars pocket the land, they follow that flash-bang-smoke ritual, coming from the nose ends of our missiles. There the scars, the physical ones, are forgotten amongst the wailing and the pain. There, there is no silence.

Meanwhile, that anger bounces back at us, and suddenly, when our scars become the ones accompanied with noise, we find ourselves striking, screaming. Anger. Oh anger. It becomes something that brings us together and can heal scars, though it may create more.

And we'll find out once more that the beautiful canvas upon which we've painted such a beautiful story about our selves is really wet paper and comes apart on the closest inspection. 

Once upon a time, I'm told, there was a king and his people and he loved them and they he, but it was when something new came to the land that discontent and anger spread and the kingdom thus fell into ruin.

But now when I look to this tale, look for some evidence, all I find are remains of a throne and tall tales about the king's deeds written by his court. In other words, propaganda. In other words, lies. And all I see in the past are lies and all I see now are lies. And even the truths that I find are lies, for no truth can live alone. And so I fall temptingly close to seeing only might, only power from a gun, and nothing of truth, but what the person behind it would say. 

But no, it cannot be that way. For though I don't listen to such tales any longer, I only do so for lack of time, because I'm spending all my energies on keeping from drowning in lies. 

So where, then, is truth? Sure you can find some cells of truth here and there, but can you find the whole beast? Can you make a tapestry with what you have? 



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