Passion vs Safety (The Result)

I mad some decisions today. I decided where I wanted to be, and I went there. The result was a mixed bag.

I saw friends that I would see less of and others I would see more of.

I mourn the loss and celebrate the gain.

I was given a choice between a simple, comforting safety and a free, vagrant passion. I could stay where I was in a safe, warm cave. Or, I could go out into the rain and follow the songs of desire that I heard floating through the trees.

Today, I saw a man play guitar until he bled. At first, it was almost transcendent, to see a man playing with such force and passion. In what kind of pain, I don't know. But, he didn't stop he just kept playing. It was incredible. But after a time he still refused to stop. He kept going long after the blood had spackled the guitar's body and the strings turned rusty-red. The blood splashed onto his thumb and dripped into his palm. But he didn't stop. I brought him a bandage and a cloth to clean the guitar and cover his wound, but he kept playing. Eventually he stopped. He wiped the guitar, to an extent, but then, ignoring the bandages, he kept going.

He was lost in something. Something that I could not see, or feel, or understand. But, I could smell it. And I could hear it. He was longing for something that, no matter how hard he played, he could not find. There was desperation in his face, and his voice was as strung out as his body. Wound tight. He played as if he were playing to an empty room that he only wanted to be filled with ears and hearts that would listen and hear. But, I was there, and there were others. They tried to sing with him, but his songs didn't call for harmony. Not the sweet, soaring harmony that the girls offered. I watched, and as my awe turned to something small and afraid, all I wanted to do was tell him that it was okay.

It was okay to stop. It was okay to lick his wounds and clean his instrument. He didn't need to get blood on his hands. But... I couldn't have told him that. It wasn't my place. I brought him bandages and a cloth. I placed them at his feet. I could not make him pick them up.

This is the world that I about to enter. This is the life that I choose to lead. I will bring bandages and cloth. I will bring what modicum of hope that I can spare. I will stand on the other side of the valley and I will scream into the rain that martyrdom and suicide are not synonyms. My words will mix with the water, and they will flow across wet pavement. Into a culvert? Into the ditch? Or to water some tree of life? I don't know, but I choose this.

I choose the bleeding man who wants something I cannot know, and I will offer what I can. I will lay them at his feet.

Let the next wave crash.